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O|$APP0mTEO HHVE^OS. 



A ORAM A: 



IN THREE ACTS, 



BRAMATISED FROM LOVER S CELEBRATED WORK. 

ENTITLED " TOM CEOSBIE AND 

niS ERTENDS." 



BY JOHN W. WHITE, 



^ % 






MOUNT VERNOK, OHIO : 

PRINTED BY JOHN W. WHITE, AT THE TELEGRAPH OFFICE, 

1858. 







Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1858, by 

JOHN W. WHITE, 

in tlie Clerk's Office of the District Court of the Northern 

District of Ohio. 



Dramatis Persons©. 



GEORGE SEYMOUE, 
GERALD ROCHEEORT, 
TOM QROSBIE, 
MR. ERANKS, 
DENNY CONNER, 
SERVANT. 

MRS. ROCHEFORT, 
EMMA AUBYN, 
JESSIE PRANKS, 
LIZZY ROSS, 
MISS BURKE, 
BIDDY. 



SCENE— DUBLm. 



OEOROi:: SKYMOXJH. 



ACT I .— S C E N E I . 

Parlor. — [George Seymour discovered walking the room.] 

Enter Mrs. Rochefort. 

Seymour. — It is long since we met; at least, since 
we met alone. You are greatly altered. (^Mrs. R. 
seats herself, and buries lier face in her hands.) {Aside.) 
— Years bring wond'rous changes : I remeriiber when 
that wrinkled forehead was smooth as polished mar- 
ble, and that drooping eye, lit up with the fire of pride 
and beauty ; yet it is not age which has marked the 
features, but the workings of the heart — the heart 
itself cannot be seen, but it writes its history in the 
face. Her heart was always false — mine to-day, his 
to-morrow. Yet I loved her once — loved her to be 
despised and scorned : but I have been revenged, and 
will be, until revenge itself can go no farther. {Sey- 
mour pauses J and looks intently at Mrs. B.) Where is 
your son? 

Mrs. Bochefort. — He left us last night, as 1 dare say 
voti are aware, or I shoiiid have been spared this visit. 



6 GEORGE SEYMOUR. [ACT I. 

Seymour. — (S7niUng.) — You are right : I am a war© 
that be left you last night — but tvhere has he gon6? 

Mrs. B. — To London. 

Seyynour. — London I What has taken him there f 

Mrs. M. — He is gone — he is gone to seek employ- 
ment, as a means of raising himself from the beggar}^ 
which your machinations have brought upon him. 

Seymour. — (^Smiling bitterly.) — You seem to forget, 
Madam, that the beggary of which you speak, is owing 
more to your conduct than to mine. I have been told 
your son was left an independent property by his 
father — where is it now ? ^o machinations— as you 
are pleased to call them — of mine, have deprived him 
of that, and yet it seems he has it not. 

Mrs. B. — {After a pause.) — What is the object of 
your coming now ? Why are you here ? 

Seymour. — You shall know. On the morning of that 
night when last you saw me, your son saved a lady's 
life — he has since been paying his addresses to her, I 
am told. Is such the fact '? 

Mrs. B. — I cannot tell -, it may be so. 

Seymour. — You know full well it is so; and more- 
over, you know that your heart is set upon the match 
— the lady is rich, and her wealth would be well ap- 
plied in patching up your broken fortunes. I will 
prevent that marriage, and through your means. — 
Your son shall have to thank his mother for the de- 
struction of his happiness. 

Mrs. B. — (Faintly.) — What mean you ? When will 
this persecution cease ? 

Seymour. — (Sternly.) — When I cease to live ! 

Mrs. B. — May God forgive you, G-eorge ! But if I 
must still suffer from your unrelenting crueltyj why 
should your vengeance pursue my unoffending child-— 
he has never given you any cause 



SCENE I.] GEORGE SEYMOUR. 7 

Seymour — {Fiercely.) — He is your son ! and therefore 
I am his enemy ! 

Mrs. li. — {Bursting into tears.) — My God! my God 1 
What have I done to deserve all this? {Raising her 
hands in sup2^U<^^tion to Seymour) — Have mercy, George I 
You say you once loved me, and by the memory of 
that love, I conjure you now to spare my boy. You 
broke his father's heart, and I will soon be with him 
in the grave, for mine also you have broken; but ex- 
tend not your vengeance to my boy — he has deserved 
it not — why should your hate descend on him ? 

Seymour. — Listen to me, Kate Eochefort ! Yoa 
have reminded me of the love I bore you once : — I did 
love you, deeply, madly — and what was the return? 
Contempt and scorn ! I tell you, woman, that if the 
dead were to rise from their graves this moment, and 
kneel before me, they could not effect the change of a 
hair's breadth in the purpose of my revenge. It is in 
vain I By Him who made me ! happiness shall never 
be the lot of you or yours, so long as I have the power 
to prevent it ! — {Paces the room hurriedly.) 

Mrs. R. — {Rising.) — Now listen to me, George Sey- 
mour. For years — for many bitter years, you have 
made my life a curse — it was a happy hfe until you 
came, like a spirit of evil, to blast its joy, and destroy 
its peace forever. Even honor you would have robbed 
me of, but that I saw my infatuation in time to escape 
the danger. Still, I could not root you entirely from 
my heart— first impressions were there, and it is 
hard to blot them out. I forgave you all until I dis- 
covered your dark treachery to my husband. !N"ow 
mark me ! You say I changed your love to hate ; the 
fiercest hate that ever burned in your heart, was noth- 
ing compared with the deadly loathing and abhorrence 
felt towards you from that moment, and afterwards 



8 GEORGE SEYMOUR. [AC:P I. 

for years. Ent time softened It. Had I never seen 
you again, I would have forgiven you. You came 
again, though — came as you ever did, with evil tidings; 
you brought me a tale of my son's having quit the 
army in disgrace — that was false, and you knew it, 
but no matter; for the time it helped you in your 
revenge. He returned shortly after, and for many 
months I saw you no more. But at last we met again. 
You came with expressions of penitence and sorrow : 
you told me you were about to leave the country, and, 
as a proof of your contrition, you offered to free me of 
my embarrassments, by refunding a portion of the 
wealth of which you had deprived me. I had faith in 
what you told me then, and, believing your professions 
were sincere, 1 confided to you the history of my 
ward, and that, in order to screen some of my follies 
and mad extravagance from my son, I had spent the 
fortune bequeathed her by her mother, l^o sooner 
had I told you this, than you threw off the mask, and 
SAVore that, unless I yielded to the proposal which 
years before you had made me, the secret I had thus 
confided to you should bo made public. But God 
gave me strength, and I defied joii. You left me then, 
swearing that before the lapse of another day, my 
disgrace should be published to the world. From that 
hour I lived in a state of apprehension and fear, that 
almost deprived me of my reason, . If Gerald was only 
absent for an hour, I watched his return with the most 
intense anxiety of fear — ever dreading that when he 
did return, it would be to curse his mother for having 
brought disgrace upon his head: no felon ever looked 
upon his judge with greater dread, than did I upon my 
oivn child! But months went over without the execu- 
tion of your threat ; — gradually my terrible alarm wore 
away, and a strong hope sprang up that you had re- 



SCENE I.] GEORGE SEYMOLR. 9 

lented, and had, in reality, left the coiintr}^ ; that hope 
was crushed when I encountered you on the street on 
the night of Gerald's accident, and, from that moment, 
the tortures of my mind have been as great as ever. 
I have long expected this time to come — that moment 
has now arrived, and I am in your power. Use it. 
Do your worst at once, but let the blow fall on mc 
alone, for I alone deserve it. You shall never make 
me an agent in your plots against the happiness of 
my child ; he has enough to curse me for already. — 
May God forgive me ! 

Seymour. — It is well, Madam ;' because, up to this 
time, I have spared you, you think you may, with 
safety, defy me now; but you are mistaken. You 
say truly, that your son has already sufficient cause to 
curse you, but he shall have more. You. declare that 
you will be no agent in fustrating his happiness ! So 
far, you have declared the truth — I will be the agent — 
you the principal. Think you, that Mr. Franks would 
give his daughter to the son of one who has robbed 
the orphan committed to her charge ? and so sure as 
I stand here before you, so surely will I proclaim to 
him the fact ! 

Mrs. B. — You could not be such a villain I — You 
cannot mean to poison my own child against me, and 
make him hate me. Some remnant of human feeling 
must still be in your nature. 

Seymour. — Human feeling! — What care I for the 
cant term of the world. My nature itself is changed — 
I have no feeling now but one, and that one is hatred of 
you and 3'ours. I would pause at nothing now, that 
could be the means of bringing down upon your head 
the misery, the tortures of mind and heart, which you 
have brought on me. Therefore, expect no mercy at 
my hands, for none shall you receive, 
b 



10 GEORGE SEYMOUR. [ACT I. 

Mrs. R. — God pity me I God pity me, and spare me 
my reason ; for a little, a very little more, will destroy 
it. Leave me, George Se3^moiir, — {wildy,') — if you 
would not see me a maniac or a suicide ! Go ! in 
mercy go ! my mind is weakened, and madness is 
coming upon me. Oli ! may heaven forgive you for 
all this ! — {Bursting into tears.') 

Seymour. — Tears are ever ready with woman, and 
sometimes prove effective ) but with me, you will find 
them unavailing. There is still one condition upon 
which you can insure my silence in this matter relating 
to your ward. 

Mrs. B. — {Eagerly.) — Name it ! 

JSeymour. — It is simply this, that you will consent to 
tell Miss Aubyn that, at her mother's death, she was 
bequeathed to 7ny care, as well as yours — that I was 
absent in another country at the time, and that I am 
now returned to claim my guardianship. 

Mrs. B. — It is enough that I have already betrayed 
my trust — I will do so no farther. 

Seymour. — But if I tell you that your consent to 
this proposal, will be a service to the girl, instead of 
an injury 

3frs. II. — I w^ill not believe it ! In what way could 
it be a service ? 

Seymour. — I^o matter ! I tell you it will be, and you 
must either trust me, or abide the consequences. 

Mrs. B. — Then I will abide them. 

Seymour. — That is your resolution ? 

3Irs. B.—lt is. 

Seymour. — Then hear me. — Before I leave this house, 
she shall know how faithfully her guardian has ful- 
filled her duty. When I have taught her to despise 
you, I will then to Mr. Franks and enlighten him as 
to the family affairs of his intended son-in-law. Your 
son himself shall be the next 



SCENE I.] GEORGE SEYMOUR, 11 

Mrs. B. — Stay ! no morOj or you will drive mc mad 
I cannot bear this — it is in vain to struggle. 

Seymour. — Then yield at once ! — consent to my pro- 
posal, and I will be silent. 

Mrs. B. — How can I depend on that ? you have so 
often deceived me 

Seymour. — You must depend on it, or- 



Mrs. B. — ]S"o more ! I will consent, and if Emma 
is the sufferer, may Grod forgive me ! 

Seymour. — Your anxiety for her welfare is doubt- 
less very great, but you need not be alarmed ; I dare 
say she will find my guardianship at least as beneficial 
as yours has been. All I require from you at pre- 
sent is, that in case she should question you on the 
subject, you tell her that I am her guardian, but that 
peculiar circumstances prevented you from giving her 
such information before. You understand me — you 
are never to mention the subject to her unless she 
questions you. 

Mrs. B. — And if she never questions me ? 

Seymour. — Then be silent. 

Mrs. B. — One word more— -upon this condition you 
promise me that my secret shall be safe ? 

Seymour. — I have said so. 

Mrs. J?.— And you will not endeavor to prevent my 
son's marriage with Miss Franks ? 

Seymour — I have not promised that! but if the 
marriage should be broken off, it must be the act of 
your son himself—will that content you? 

Mrs. B. — It must, for I have no alternative. 

Seymour. — Then remember our compact — if Miss 
Aubyn should, at any time, ask you if it be true that 
I am her guardian, you tell her, without hesitation, 
that such is the fact. Break through the condition, 
and you know the results [Exeuent. 



12 GEORGE SEYMOUR. [ACT 



SCENE II. 

Tom Chosbie's Koom. — [Tom discovered in the act of Shaving 
— Coat and Vest hanging on a Chair.] 

Tom. — {Soliloquy.)— Money must be had, that's poz ! 
Tm regularly done up, and the only " blunf in my 
possession is the edge of this confounded razor. I^ow, 
a man without money has no more business in society 
than — than what? — than a woman under the same 
circumstanceSj and a woman without money is — more 

than my beard is, with this d d razor — likely to be 

cut. Therefore, money must be had — where, I don't 
know — how, I don't care — but it must come ! Can't 
take it from Dismal — he's a friend; a man should 
never borrow from a friend. Must turn school-boy 
again, and endeavor to fly a "kite" — that's the only 
plan I see. Let me think now. Whose name would 
look well upon a bit of stiff for fifty ? Goodman's? 
Oh, yes, indeed, don't I wish I might get it ? Brown's? 
Brown would'nt accept a bill for his father. Morris ? 
Oh, yes I there's Morris — he'd do it in a minute ; but, 
poor fellow ! he's often hard up enough himself, and I 
T^^ould'nt like to ask him. Stop, though, I don't see 
w^hy I should'nt ask Dismal — the thing is not like 
borrowing money — it won't cost him a farthing, and 
I'll pay it when it's due. By Jove ! that '11 do ] I'll 
give Mrs. Taylor her money, cut the concern, take 
quiet lodgings, go to church every Sunday, look out for 
a rich widow — no, hang it, I'll never marry : that 
Lizzy Eoss is enough to make a man pitch the sex to 
the devil ; her conduct last night was shameful, scan- 
dalous, disgraceful ! I'll never speak to her again as 
long a;? I live ; I hate her, I detest her ! (Ilusic and 



SCENE II.] GEORGE SEYMOUR. 13 

singing heard.) Hush ! that's her voice singing. — 
(Rims to the door and calls out.) — Fll be down in five 
minutes, Lizzy, to take a second in that duet. — (Goes 
hack to dressi7ig table.) I just said that to vex her — I 
hav'nt a notion of going down — where the devil is 
that suspender ? I would'nt go if she came up and 
asked me. Confound this waistcoat ! I yut my arm 
through the wrong hole. I never saw a girl I dislike 
as much as that ! — there she goes again. — (Opens the 
door and cries out) — Ah ! can't you wait till I como 
down^ Lizzy? — I'll not be a half dozen seconds. — (Goes 
to the glass and brushes his whisTicrs.) I never looked 
so frightful in my life. I'm not fit to be seen — I made 
liiyself look so purposely, to vex that girl ! I'll just 
^valk into the drawing room in this kind of a way — ■ 
(folds his arms and knits his brows into a stern frown) — 
and I won't open my lips — not as much as to say good 
morning — I'm the very fellow that can do that sort of 
thing, when I take it into my head — I'll be as stiff as 
a Lord Chancellor. If she speaks to me I'll just say 
in this kind of tone, you know, hem! a — "Miss Ross, 
I have the honor to wish you — a — a — hem — joy of — 
of your conquest last night — Madam 1" That'll surprise 
her a bit, I suspect ; but here's some one coming up 

stairs — a message from her I'll engage. D n this 

coat, it wrinkles most confoundedly about the waist. — 
(Knocking heard.) — ^Ah ! there's the knock at the door 
— now for it — hem ! — "Who's there ? 
Biddy. — (Outside.) — It's me, sir — Biddy, sir. 

Enter Biddy. 

Tom. — Oh ! you may just say Tm engaged at pre- 
sent. — I have something else to think of besides sing- 
ing, just now. 



14 GEORGE SEYMOUR. [ACT I. 

Biddy. — It's not about singing, your wanting. 

Tom. — Never mind — can't attend to any woman's 
nonsense at present. 

Biddy. — It's not a woman, sir; it's a boy that's 
wanting you. 

Tom. — A boy ! why the devil didn't you say so ? — 
Who is he ? 

Biddy. — I don't know, sir; he's a poor looking cray- 
ture, but he's very civil spoken. 

Tom. — Did he kiss you ? 

Biddy. — Eh, then, isn't it a shame for you, Misther 
Crosbie, to be always gettin' on in that fashion. — 
( Wiping tier lips on her apron.) I never see the likes 
of you I 

Tom. — Well, go down and tell him, whoever he is, 
that I'll see him in a few minutes. ^Blxit Biddy. 

( Tym returns to the glass, gives his whiskers another 
touch, and then retires.) 



SCENE III. 

Drawing Eoom. — [Lizzy Koss discovered seated at the Piano, 
with her back to the door.] 

Enter Tom OrosMe. 

Lizzy. — (^Taking no notice of Tom, sings:) 

The flower that I loved is withered, 
Its leaves and its fragrance shed, 
The destroyer has breathed upon it- 
Mary is dead ! 
In my ear her loved voice never 
Shall breathe in its siWer tone. 
Its music is hushed forever, 
The light of my heart is gone, 



SOENE III.] GEORGE SEYMOUR. 15 

Like the spring time's changing beauties, 

As bright, and as quickly fled, 

Were my dreams for the hidden future — 

Mary is dead ! 
My fair-haired bride has left me 
Deserted and alone. 
Death hath of hope bereft me, 
The light of my heart is gone. 

Yet she smiles through the troubled dreamings 

That come to my widow'd bed. 

And I weep, for it soothes my sorrow — 

Mary is dead. 
I weep when the morning wakes me, 
With the light of the golden sun, 
For mine is a life of darkness, 
The light of my heart is gone. 

{Buring the singing, Tom listens attentively, forgetting 
his froivn and his folded arms. — At the close he stalks 
across the room like a Bashaw, and fliiigs himself fidl 
length upon the sofa, and commences playing with his 
thumbs.) 

Lizzy. — {Carelessly.) — Oh; are yon there? — {Tom 
looks wicked.) Yon seem in a cheerful humour. — {Tom 
bites his lip.) Don't eat it all I beg of you; pray 
leave a little bit. — {Tom turns his face to the wall.) — 
Pleasant creature. — ( Tom kicks his boot against the sofa.) 
Do that again, it's so sensible. — {Tom does it again.) 
Another little kick. — {Tom lets his foot fall to the floor.) 
Woukrnt you like to kick it a little more ? — ( Tom lets 
his other foot fall.) Perhaps you'd wish for joiw night- 
cap ? — {Tom turns round upon the sofa.) Shall I sing 
you a lullaby? — {Seriously.) 

Tom. — {Aside.) — Can't stand it much longer. 

Lizzy.— Shall 11 

Tom,. — No I — {In a loud voice.) Go, sing one for jowv 



16 GEORGE SEYMOUR. [ACT I. 

new conquest; — he likes that sort of thing, perhaps — 
I don^t! 

Lizzy. — Oh ! you have found your voice, have you? 
— {^Laughing.) 

Tom. — Yes, Madam, I have found my voice, and let 
me make use of it to tell you. Madam, that it will be 
some time before you shall hear it again. 

Lizzy.— -An.oih.QT silent fit ? 

Tom. — You better not laugh at me. Madam. — {Bisiiig 
from the sofa, and folds his arms as lie intended.) Vm. 
not a — a — hem — not to be trifled with, I can tell you ! 

Lizzy. — You woukFnt murder me ? — ( With mock ter- 
ror, shrinking back from him.) 

Tom. — ~^o, Madam, but I might murder somebodj^ 
else — somebody else, Madam ; perhaps I may make my- 
self understood. — (^Marches across the room.) 

Lizzy. — Oh ! don't come near me ; I'm afraid you'll 
bite me ! 

Tom. — Grood morning, Madam ! — (^Moves toward the 
door, boiving with dignity.) I'm going. Madam! I 
have the honor to wish you good morning ! 

Lizzy. — Good morning ! — {With a deep courtesy, and 
with a grave countenance.) Pray, don't kill yourself or 
any body else until I see you again ! 

^Tom. — Oh ! you be {Bushes out.) 

Lizzy. — Tom ! 

Tom. — {Coming hack.) — Did you speak. Madam? 

Lizzy. — Youwould'nt shake hands w4th me? — {Goax- 
ingly.) 

Tom. — ISTo ! certainly- not ! 

Lizzy. — You would'nt? 

Tom. — I'd die first. — {Puts his hands behind his back.) 

Lizzy. — I would'nt let you kiss me ! 

Tom. — Perhaps, if Mr. Eochefort was here, you 
mi edit let him ! 



80ENE III.] GEORGE SEYMOUR. 17 

Lizzy. — I would'nt let you, at all events.— (jDrat^in^ 
nearer to him.) 

Tom. — Oh ! you know /never kissed you I 

Lizzy. — You never shall again ! 

Tom.— Shan't I ? 

Lizzy. — No — never ! 

Tom.—l would if I liked ! 

Lizzy. — I defy you — I'd scream if you did. 

Tom. — You would ? 

Lizzy.— Yes — certainly. 

Toni. — Scream now_. then \-— {Catches her round, the 
waist, and kisses her.) — There I 

Miss Burke. — {At the door,) — That's very nice con- 
duct, upon my word. — ( Walks majestically into the room.) 

Lizzy. — My Aunt. ^ [Exit. 

Tom.— -Miss Burke ! by all that's unlucky ! Tm off 
— good morning, ladies. — {Makes for the door.) 

Miss J5«rA'e.-— Stop, sir I 

Tom. — Another time, my dear Madam, I shall be 
most happy — at present, particular business— 

Miss Burke. — I desire you to remain ! 

Tom. — Can't 'pon my honor ! — going to a friend's 
death-bed — last gasp — mind wondering, and all that 
sort of thing. Can't stop a moment — good morning. 
— {Rushes out.) 

Miss Burke. — And you, Miss Eoss, what have you 
to say about such scandalous conduct ? — {Turning^ dis- 
covers herself alone.) [Exit. 
c 



18 GEORGE SEYMOUR. [ACT. I. 



SCENE IV. 

Dbawing Koom. — [George Seymour discovered sitting, with 
his elbow resting on a Table. Two or three Chairs in the 
Koom. ] 

Enter Emma Auhyn. 

Seymour. -{Rising and bowing respectfully.') — I have to 
make many apologies, Miss Aubyn, for this unceremo- 
nious intrusion — for intrusion, I fear, you must con- 
sider it. If you will do me the favor to sit down and 
attend to me lor a few minutes, I will endeavor to ex- 
plain my reasons. — {Places a chair for her near his own. 
£Jmma seats herself.) But, before I begin, suffer me to 
assure you, you have no cause to fear the approach of 
any evil, such as, from the answer to my letter, you 
seem to apprehend. 

Emma Aubyn. — You will excuse me, if I request, 
that I may at once be informed of the object of thia 
visit. 

Seymour. — Pardon me one moment; there are two 
or three questions I would first ask you, and though 
they may appear somew^hat impertinent, believe me, 
I do not mean them to be so, as I am sure you will 
acknowledge, when matters have been explained. In 
the first place, then, what is your age ? 

Emma Aubyn. — {Smiling.) — Eighteen my next birth 
day. 

Seymour. — And when will that be? 

Emma Aubyn. — Oh ! a long way off — the latter end 
of March. 

Seymour. — {Aside.) — March, and this is the last week 
m July. {Loud.) — You were born in Paris, I believe ? 



SCENE IV.] GEORGE SEYMOUR. 19 

(Emma bows in the affirmative.) Your mother died 
when your were very young. {Emma weeps. After some 
moments silence.) — I meant not this, believe me; I am 
deeply grieved that I should have awakened memo- 
ries so painful. Can you forgive me ? — (Lays his 
hand with gentleness on hers.) 

Emma Aubyji. — {In a broken voice.) — I have nothing 
to forgive ; you could not have intended to wound my 
feelings, nor could I have thought that, after so many 
years, the mere mention of my poor mother, and of my 
early home, could have betrayed me into such weak- 
ness but it is over now. I can listen calmly to any- 
thing you have to say — pray go on. 

Seymour. — You are already aware that at your mo- 
ther's death, you were brought over here from France, 
and placed under the guardianship of Mrs. Eochefort; 
but, I believe, you have never yet been informed that 
there was also another to whose care you were be- 
queathed. Circumstances have hitherto prevented 
that other from coming forward to perform his share 
of duty toward you. In fact, until very lately, he has 
been absent in a distant land. On his return to this 
country, he sought out Mrs. Bochefort. He hoped to 
have found that the care of one guardian had been 
sufficient, and that you had suffered nothing by his 
unavoidable neglect ; but he was deceived ; instead of 
that, he discovered that all your interests, present, and 
future, had been sacrificed by her Vv^hose duty it should 
have been to fulfill toward you the part of a second 
mother. 

Emma Aubyn. — It is false ! grossly false, whoever 
says it. She has been a second mother to me ; if she 
had not, what would have become of me, when I wa,s 
thrown on the world homeless and penniless? 

Seymour. — You have been deceived. You were 7iot 



20 GEORGE SEYMOUR. [aCT I. 

left penniless. There was a sum placed in Mrs. Eoche- 
fort's hands for your use, the interest of which was to 
be devoted to your education, and the principal to be- 
come yours when you should reach the age of eighteen. 

Emma Aubyn. — Impossible ! If it were really as 
you say, Mrs. Bochefurt would not have kept me in 
the dark so long. You must be misinformed. 

Seymour.-— Hhixt is not likel}^, as I think you will 
allow, when I tell you Mrs. Eochefort herself is my 
informant. I am her fellow guardian, and she confessed 
to me that the money— -a thousand pounds — which 
was placed in her hands, has been long since squan- 
dered. 

Emma Auhyn. — I will not believe it; until I hear it 
from her own lips I will not believe it. What object 
oould she have in concealing from me the ftxct that 1 
had another guardian ? or, if money had really been 
placed in her hands for my use, why not have told 
mo, when she knew that it would have been my 
greatest pride to offer it for her service ? I cannot 
believe it ! I will go to her this instant. — (^Attempts 
to rise-— Seymour detains her.) 

Seymour.— -Stay I If you would not bring instant 
ruin on her head, you will keep this interview a secret 
-"-at least for the present. 

Em.ma Aubyn. — Why is all this mystery ? Wl>y not 
iniestion Mrs. Eochefort on this subject? Or why 
not, before now, come forward openly, and declare 
yourself my guardian ? I cannot understand it! 

Seymour.- — Believe me, I had strong reasons for act- 
ing as I have done. There are circumstances which 
render it absolutely necessary that Mrs. Eochefort's son 
should remain for a time in ignorance of my return to 
this oountrj^,^ and therefore I have taken advantage 
gf his absence to ask this interview. Besides, I was 



SCENE IV.] GEORGE SEYMOUR. 21 

not aware, until within a day or two, liow your guard- 
ian had betrayed her trust. You know not all I have 
discovered — you could never dream of the wrongs 
that have been done you. 

Emma Aubyn. — One question.- — If all you have told 
me be indeed true, is it with Gerald's knowledge ? 

Seymour. — I believe ho knows no more than your- 
self, that any fortune had been left you ; there are 
many secrets besides this, which his mother has not 
thought necessary to confide to him. I am told, that 
this young man is paying his addresses to a wealthy 
heiress- — do you know her ? 

Emma Aubyn. — If you allude to Miss Franks, I have 
seen her, but I do not know her intimately, nor have 
I heard anything of the kind which you speak of; but 
if it Avould be for Gerald's advantage, I hope— I hope 
it is true.-— (Ti^rns aside to hide her tears.') 

Seymour. — (Coolly.) — It is not likely to be of much 
advantage, inasmuch as no marriage will ever take 
place between them. 

Emma Aiiby7i.-(^Qiiickly.')-'Wh9Al how^ know you that? 

Seyrnour. — Because, I have it in my power to pre- 
vent it, and I will prevent it. 

Emma Aubyn. — {Aside.) — Oh ! it I could be sure of 
that, how happy it would make me. 

Seymour. — And now, Miss Aubyn, I have no objec- 
tion to you mentioning to Mrs. Rochefort this inter- 
view, provided you make known the nature of it no 
farther than inquiring of her, whether it was true that 
you had a second guardian ; but under no circumstan- 
ceS; must she suppose j^ou are acquainted with the fact 
of any money having been bequeathed you. 

Emma Aubyn. — If Mrs. Eochefort acknowledges that 
you have stated the truth, then I promise to be guided 
in future by your advice. [^Exeuent, 



22 GEORGE SEYMOUB. [ACT I. 

h. 
SCENE V. 

Mk, Franks' Eoom. — [Mr. Erank^ discovered walking the 
room hurriedly.] 

Ifr. Franks-— (Soliloquj/.y— Confound that fellow, 
Gerald Eochefort ! At dinner I invited him to my room, 
and here 1 have been an hour awaiting his appearance. 
Confonnd him, I say. If he did save ray daughter's 
life, 1 can't stand every thing, and I won't. Why 
can't he come forward boldly and say — " Mr. Franks, 
I love your daughter — will you give her to me ?" — 
That would be behaving like a man ; but, instead, 
here he comes sneaking day after day, and then sneak- 
ing off again. I have no patience with such a fellow I 
Why, when I was a young man — but times have 
altered since then ! — when I was a young man like 
him, damme ! I'd have popped the question in five 
minutes; and if the answer was " No " — phsha ! what 
am I thinking of! He knows as well as I do, that it 
would be no such thing. If he does n't propose for- 
lier before ten days are over his head, hang me if I 
don't hunt him like a redshank, about his business. 
There's an end on it ! They are together now- — such 
a turning up of eyes, and squeezing out of sighs, and 

every d d nonsense of the kind! Whenever two 

young people are in a room together, and no sounds 
audible beyond the door, there's sure to be mischief 
in the wind ! For two pins I'd steal a march, and find 
out what they're at ; if it's not mischief, there's no 
harm done; if it is, I'll open their eyes a bit. But 
"listeners never hear good of themselves," they say — 
no matter ! Hang me if I don't do it ! I know there's 
villany going on — and I'll see if I can't make it out. 
Til astonish them ! \_JExit. 



SCENE VI.] GEORGE SEYMOUR. 



SCENE VI . 

Drawing Eoom. — [Jessie Franks and Gerald Koctiefort discov- 
ered seated on a Sofa — the hand of tlie maiden reposing- 
quietly in tliat of her lover. Mr. Franks discovered behind 
one of the wings watching them.] 

Gerald. — Jessie — Jessie, I am very unhappy. 

Mr. Franks. — Humph! — humph; what does ho 
mean by that ? 

Jessie. — {Softly.) — Why should you be unhappy ?^;,- 

Mr. Franks. — Because he's an ass ! — that's why ! 

Gerald. — Ever since the first hour I saw you, I have 
been dreaming 

Mr. Franks. — Almost time for you to wake up then. 

Gerald. — And now, I feel that when that dream is 
ended, life will have no farther happiness for me. 

Jessie. — But why should you have such fears? — 
dreams have often been realized, you know. 

Gerald. — Mine can scarcely be — it was too bright. 

Mr. Franks. — Too fiddlestick !— confounded stuif ! — 
Can't the fellow put his arm around her neck, like a 
man, and give her a smack at once, instead of a^ this 
nonsense ? 

Gerald. — Too bright — far too bright. 

Mr. Franks. — If he says that again, hang me if I 
don't rush in and kick him ! 

Jessie. — Are you dreaming now ? or do you want to 
put me to sleep with that doleful voice and look ? 

Gerald. — Your father 

Mr. Franks. — Ha! now we are going to have it ! I 
thought there was mischief in the wind ! 

Gerald, — Your father told me after dinner to-day, 
that he wished to speak to me in private. 

Jessie. — (Anxiously.) — Well ? 



24 GEORGE SEYMOUR. [ACT I. 

Gerald. — I was afraid to remain, for I anticipated 
the nature of his speech — it would have been to tell 
me to come here no more. 

e. — You must be dreaming! — how could you 



Gerald. — I feel it; — and he is right; he cannot but 
have seen my love for you ; and (bitterly,) he knows I 
aiii a beggar ! 

Mr. Franks. — I am longing to be at him ! 

Jessie. — Gerald — {loithdraioing her hand,) — you do 
my father an injustice. If such a motive could have 
governed him an instant — which is impossible, as you 
slfould by this time knovv^, he would never have suf- 
fered our intercourse to continue. No earthly consid- 
eration could ever induce him to risk the happiness 
of his child. You do not know my father! 

Mr. Franks. — My child ! my own true-hearted child \ 
( Wiping his cyes.\ — God bless her ! 

Gerald. — Forgive me, Jessie. — ( Taking her hand and 
pressing it between both his oion.) — Forgive me, dearest; 
I meant not to offend you, but the fear that I should 
be separated from you now almost deprives me of 
reason. If you could only know the depth of my 
love, you would not blame me. 

W-. Franks. — Ah ! that's something like ! — the bu- 
siness will soon be settled now ! 

Jessie. — Is it very deep ? I think it must be, it has 
taken so long to come to the surface. 

Mr. Franks. — Good ! let him put that in his pipe and 
smoke it ! 

Gerald. — (Fassing his arm round her waist, and draws 
her closer to his side.) — You love me, Jessie ? 

Jessie. — Do I ? 

Gerald. — Such is my hope — is it a deceitful one? 

Jessie. — Not quite so much so as hopes generally are. 



SCENE VJ.] GEOROE SEYMOUR. 25 

Gerald. — You know my poverty. 

Mr. Franks. — Damn his poverty ! 

Jessie. — Never allude to that again, if you would 
not wish seriously to wound my feelings. (S7niling.) 
You know riches are so unromantic! 

Mr. Franks. — Damn romance ! We'll have " love 
in a cottage'^ now — flowers and bowers, eyes and 
sighs, hearts and darts, aiid all that sort of.thing — pah ! 

Gerald. — They may be unromantic, Jessie, but they 
are very necessar}^, nevertheless, and notwithstanding 
all your father's kindness to me, I cannot hope that 
he would give his consent to our union. 

Mr. Franks. — For a sixpence, I'd walk in and order 
the fellow to march — how dare the fellow have such 
an opinion of me ? 

Jessie.— G-erald, dear Gerald, — shall I confess it? I 
have long wished for this hour to come. I could not 
be bhnd to your love, for my own heart taught me to 
read yours ; I knew your feelings, for I knew my own ; 
but I longed to hear you speak them, for then, dear 
Gerald, I could tell you how they were returned. 

Gerald. — (Kissing her.)—~'Mj own Jessie ! 

Mr. Franks. — All right ! I may soon walk in ! 

Jessie. — (Gerald kisses her again.) — There! that will 
do — let me finish what I have to say, before you 
smother me, entirely. Gerald, I know my dear 
father's nature, and you have but to tell him of — ot 
our attachment, to insure his consent, and his blessing. 

Mr. Franks. — The little villian ! — (in an ecstacy of 
delight,) — the cunning little villain ! how did she guess 
it I — (Wiping his eyes.) 

Gerald. — (Embracing her.) — Now am I happy indeed; 
but, dearest, may you not be mistaken? — may not 
you reckon too fondly on your fVither's yielding his 
consent ? 
b 



^ 



26 GEORGE SEYMOUR; [ACT I. 

Mr. Franks. — I'll make him smart for this I 

Jessie. — Ko, Gerald, I am not mistaken ; mj father 
loves you as well — almost as well as — as well as I do. 

Gerald, — My own darling girl ! — (^Drawing her to his 
heart, and pressing his lips to hers.) 

Mr. Franks. — Come ! this won't do ! Hang me if I 
stand any more of this ! he'll eat her before he stops ! 
( Wo2ks into the room.) 

Gerald. — >''Mr. Franks I) .-r> ^x - ^ 

Jessie— I My father ! | (^"''^ "«<^-) 

Mr. Franks. — Yes, sir — Mr. Franks ! Yes, Madarn 
— your father ! You ought to be proud of yourselves I 
This is a remarkably nice sort of a duet I have inter- 
rupted — pray go on with it- — oh, pray do ! 

Gerald. — {Stammering.) — Indeed, sir. 

Mr. Franks. — Well, sir ! what have you got to say ? 
Are you ashamed of yourself ? Do you feel afraid to 
look me in the face? Do you tremble when you hear 
my voice? — {Gerald and Jessie smile.) — What are you 
grinning at, Madam ? How dare you smile? I won- 
der jOM don't sink into the earth with shame ! Have 
you no idea of decency ? 

Jessie. — Come, papa, don't be cross. — (Coaxingly, 
ivhile she d?riios close to him and lays one hand on his 
shoulder.) — You know you look so terrible when you 
are vexed ! — {Smiles.) 

Mr. Franks. — {Stepping hack.) — Don't touch me I— ~ 
Don't you come within tv/enty miles of me ! How 
dare you love any one without asking your father's 
leave? How dare you do it, I say? 

Jessie. — Please, sir — {droppig a courtesy )) — I couldn't 
help it I 

Mr. Franks. — {Turning to Gerald.) — You couldn't 
heljt it either, sir, I suppose? 

Qpyctl(i.~^{ TrfmdIy.)—No. sir. 



SCENK VI.] GEORGE SfiYMOUR. 2T 

Mr. Franks. — And do you dare to tell me that you 
love my daughter ? 

Gerald. — {Boldly.) — I do, sir ! 

Mr. Franks. — And you would wed her without my 
consent ? 

Gerald. — I would not, sir : there you wrong me. I 
would never have urged her to disobedience of your 
wishes, and, therefore, deeply as I loved her, I have 
never spoke of it until now. 

Mr. Franks. — Say no more ! ( Turning to Jessie.) — 
And you, Madam, would you have become his wife 
without my sanction ? 

Jessie. — No, father, no ! — ( Throwing both arms round 
his neck.) — You know I would not. 
Mr. Franks. — And you love him ? 
Jessie. — {Nestling her head closer to her father' s hosoin.) 
— I do. 

Mr. Franks. — Here — (taking Gerald's hand,) — here 
— take her — take my darling, my own beloved child. 
Cherish her, sir, — cherish her in your heart's core ! for 
Heaven has given her to you for a blessing ! If ever 
you neglect her — if ever one cold look should fall upon 

my child — I will curse 

Jessie. — Father ! dear father ! — {Returning to him, 
and pressing her lips upon his forehead.) — You must not 
have such thoughts — wo will be so happy now ! 

Mr. Franks. — {Slowly and tenderly laying his hands, 
one after the other, upon her shoidders, ajid thus holding 
her at arm's length before him, he gazes at her ivith affec- 
tion — he clasps her to his bosom in a passionate embrace — 
holds her there an instant, and, then, suddenly releases 
her, places her hand in Gerald's, and raises his hands 
revere?itly over their heads.) — May God's blessing, and 
mine, attend you both ! 

[enb of first act.] 



GEOROE SEYMOUR. [ACT 



ACT II. -"SCENE I. 

A Room.— [Several Chairs — a Table, upon which is a small Iron 
Box — several Bundles of Papers — an Ink Stand, and a pair 
of Pistols.] 

[George Seymour, disguised as an Old Man — long locks of grey 
hair — huge unshorn beard, descending far down his breast — 
A long shapeless morning gown conceals his figure, which is 
considerably bent, seemingly with age — arms folded across 
his breast — discovered standing at the table,] 

Enter Gerald Rochefort — [His features partially concealed by a 
large Cloak.] 

Seymour. — -I have waited your coming. — (^Saluting 
him with a cold and distant bow.) 

Gerald. — (Returniiig the salutation coldly, and speak- 
ing haughtily.) — Ten o'clock was the time appointed — 
that hour has scarce passed— I think I have been 
punctual. 

Seymour. — Yes, ten minutes make but little differ- 
ence ; and yet half, nay a tenth part of that time may 
suffice a man to do a deed which will hang like a bitter 
curse upon his future life—within that little space the 
wife may become a widow— the child an orphan — 
kingdoms change their rulers — riches their possessors 
— ay ! or woman become false, and a man a murderer ! 
Is it not so ? 

G-erald. — I would speak with you upon a different 
subject: I — I know not Avhat you mean. 



SCENE I.] GEORGE SEYMOUR. 29 

Seymour. — It matters not ; what may be your plea- 
sure ? 

Gerald. — You already know my errand. 

Seymour. — Ay, I had forgotten ; you require money, 

Gerald. — I do. 

Seymour. — How much ? 

Gerald. — A thousand pounds. 

Seymour. — Humph ! it is a large sum 3 who told you 
to apply to me ? 

Gerald. — One who is himself your debtor; he told 
me I should find you willing to advance the sum. 

Seymour. — His name ? 

Gerald. — Captain Eobert Harley. 
, Seymour. — Oh ! and so l3ecause I have been fool 
enough to lend my money to him, he sends others to 
rob me of my gold. 

Gerald. — Sir — {haughtily') — you forget your position. 
Think you your hoarded wealth gives you a right to 
insult those who are driven to seek your assistance? 
I came not here to bandy useless words ; can I haye 
the money? 

Seymour. — (Smiling.) — You are hasty, young gen- 
tleman ; you have not yet spoken of security — how 
am I to be repaid ? 

Gerald. — (After a few moments hesitation.) — For the 
money, it may be long before I can return it, but the 
interest shall be punctually paid; and as to security, 
I have little more than personal to offer. 

Seymour. — Oh ! and pray may I ask you if you are 
really serious in seeking so large a loan, upon such 
terms as these ? 

Gerald. — If I were not, sir, the application would 
scarcely have been made. As I conclude it has been 
made in vain, I shall trespass no further upon your 
time, and so— 



30 GEORGE SEYMOUR. [aCT II. 

Sey7nour.—Bt^y, stay, you are over hasty, Mr. Roche- 
fort, and 

Gerald. — (Starting.) — Rochefort ! how knew you my 
name ? when I wrote to you about this money, I mere- 
1}^ signed the note with an initial, and yet 1 now re- 
member the answer the boy brought me yesterday, 
bore my name upon the cover; how is this, sir? 

Seymour. — {Smiling.) — No matter, few are strangers 
to me. But the money ! You have not the means of 
repaying the tenth part of the sum, and yet, upon one 
condition, you shall have it. 

Gerald. — {Anxiously.) — What is the condition ? — 
(Seats himself.) 

Seymour. — You want this money for a purpose to 

which I am no stranger. Your mother is in debt 

(Gerald springs from his seat in astonishment.) You 

see, I am acquainted with more of your secrets than 
.you gave me credit for. — (Gerald siriks into his seat.) — 
Do not interrupt me — your mother is in debt; — her 
reckless, dishonorable extravagance has caused it, and 
if, within a few days, one at least of her creditors be 
not satisfied, she will be disgraced forever; is not this 
the truth ? (After a few moments silence.) — You do not 
answer, — you want this money to save your mother 
from disgrace — stay, you need not speak — I know that 
such is the fact; I know more, that, when you were 
in distress, she refused you the assistance which might 

have saved you from but no matter; remain calm 

another moment ; you want the money, and, as I have 
said before, upon one condition you shall have it. 

Gerald. — Pray come at once to an explanation upon 
the subject ! 

Seymour. — You are going to be married ! 

Gerald. — Ha! it is utterly impossible you should 
know thai I But what means, sir^ have you 



SOENE I.] GEOKaE SEi:'MOUR. '61 

JSeytnour. — ISTay^ nay, you need not be so much 
alarmed; greater secrets than this have sometimes 
come within my knowledge. Is the idea of marriage 
60 very startling to you? 

Gerald. — (Jiising.) — The means, sir, by which mat- 
ters of such importance to my famil}^ and myself, have 
come to your knowledge, I am utterly at a loss to con- 
jecture. What interest my private affairs can possess 
for you, I cannot possibly imagine; but, as your ob- 
ject appears to be to question me upon subjects, v/hich 
can in no way, concern you, instead of confining your- 
self to the business upon which I came, 1 must say, 
that you have presumed somewhat too far, and I shall, 
therefore, leave you at leisure to pursue your interest- 
ing researches into the history of the next person, 
whose folly, or misfortune, may drive him to seek 
your assistance. — {Tunis and loalks toioards the doo)\) 

Seymour. — (Steps forward and lays his hand on Ge- 
rald's arm.) — Young man, you should ere this have 
learned to curb the impetuosity of your temper. You 
came here to-night to seek a sum of money to save 
your mother from disgrace— -hesiv me, I say, or if you 
will persist, then go, and let her die and rot within a 
prison! — (Besumes his seat.-— Gerald paces the room in 
agitation. After a pause, Seymour resumes.) — It seems 
strange to you, Mr. Eochefort, that I should be aware 
of circumstances relative you, and your affairs, which 
you had deemed unknown to any but those persons 
immediately concerned. I am now, however, about 
to prove to you, that my knowledge of your affairs is 
not confined to the past, nor even to the present, but 
extends also to the future. You doubt it? Be it so, 
you shall have the proof — the marriage which you 
contemplate shall never take place I 

Gerald. — By Heaven, old man ! you are presuming 



32 GEORGE SEYMOUR. [ACT II. 

too much upon my patience. Whatever your motives 
may be, in prying into the private transactions of my 
Hfe, 1 have before said, I cannot conjecture ; but that 
you should endeavor to impose upon my belief, by pre- 
tending an insight into the future, exceeds anything 
you have already said, or done. 1 tell you, usurer, or 
whatever you are, that no earthly power shall prevent 
the marriage ot which you speak, and 1 warn you to 
mention the subject no more. 

Seymour. — Oh, as you please; then our conference 
is ended. You will, no doubt, find some other person 
fool enough to lend you a thousand pounds with the 
prospect of never being paid, and your mother will 
thus be saved from the threatened danger. I say, sir, 
our conference is ended. (^Passing from the room, is 
detained by Gerald.) It is useless to prolong our in- 
terview, unless you keep your temper within bounds; 
he who seeks to borrow, should assume a milder tone. 

Gerald. — You have said, that upon one condition I 
should have the sum I seek — I again ask what that 
condition is ? 

Seymour. — (After a pause, and looking iritently upon 
Gerald's face.) — The condition is simply this — that 
from this day forward, you resign every claim to the 

hand of I need not speak the name -, if you are 

content 

Gerald. — Content ! — Content, to yield all I love on 
earth — to give up every hope of happiness — to bring 
endless misery upon myself, and to break the heart 
that has confided in me. By Heaven ! old man, such 
jests as this, are not to be calmly borne. 

Seymour. — I jest not ; I have told you the condition 
— it is for you to consider, whether or not, you will 
agree to it. 

Gerald. — ISTever ! never! not for the wealth of Eu- 



SCENK 1.] CKOUGE SEYMOUR. 83 

rope — not if I was forced, like a common slave, to 
work for my daily bread, and that millions were offer- 
ed me as the reward. I tell yon, old man, if you are 
serious in this demand, there is some hidden villan}' 
that I cannot solve ; but it shall be discovered, and, 
mark me, one like you could have no interest in break- 
ing off this marriage — there must be some damned 
plot in the transaction; but, old and feeble as you are, 
if, by your means, I am robbed of my happiness, no 
powder on earth 

Seymour. — Make no rash vows, young man ; I tell 
3"0U that upon no other condition shall you have the 
money, and I tell 3^ou more, that whether you yield 
to it or not, the marriage, on v\'liicli you have set your 
heart, shall never take p)lace ! If you agree, the money 
shall be yours ; if not, within a fortnight your mother 
Avill be in a prison — a felon — and circumstances will 
become known to the Avorld which will disgrace both 
you and her forever. I^ow, sir, make up your mind. 

Gerald. — Oh, God! — (Pressing his hands upon his 
forehead.) — See tlie misery which has been brought 
upon me in a few short hours — ni}^ hopes dashed to 
ruin, my happiness destroyed, my plighted faith broken, 
and all, ail, through the cursed infatuation of my own 

no matter, she is still my mother. Old man, 

or devil, whatever you are, if I can find no other means 
of procuring the sum I want, within a week, I will 
agree to yoar condition, though it rob me of my hap- 
piness forever. 

Seymour. — I am content, — tliis night week then, at 
the same hour, T shall await you. [^Exeuent. 



GEORGE SEYMOUR. [ACT II. 



; C E N E II. 



Enter Denny Conner. — [Denny walks to the back of the Stage 
and leans against one of the wings.] 

Fmter Gerald Rochefort. — [Gerald passes across the Stage.] 

Denny. — {Coming forward.) — Your sarvint, Masther 
Garald — it's a mighty nate little cabin we're in — a 
very pleasant place entirely, only the rats isn't over 
partic'lar in the regard o' food — a bite out of a body's 
nose, now 

Gerald. — (^Aside.) — Ah! I am not alone. (Tb Den- 
ny.) — ^You here, and know me 1 

Denny. — Why, thin, be my faix, you may say that; 
^tis here I am, sure enough, an' here I won't be longer 
than I can help it, you may depind, for I'd just as soon 
keep my nose on my face while I have it, an' its 
mighty likely if I'd stop a while longer, the rats 'ud 
lave me but a small share of it. 

Gerald. — How long have you been here? 

Denny. — About three minutes, sir, for you see, sir, I 
was takin' a doze beyant in the room there. 

Gerald. — I mean^ how long have you been in the 
house? 

Denny.—Kiij be an hour or two, more or less ; I 
was out walkin' this evening 

Gerald. — Confound your stupidity ! Hoav long have 
you been living here ? 

Denny. — Mush a then, Masther Garald, I'm not livin' 
here at all ] it's dym I am, sir, dyin' be inches, bekase 
you see the rats 

Gerald, — D n the rats I 



SCENE II.] GEORGE SEYMOUR. '^" 

Denm/.-Oh ! amin, sir, with all the veins of my 
heart That's the very thing I say mese f, every min- 
nit in the day-bad loock may attmd the same var- 
mint ! sorra hit of a nose — 

Gerald.— 1 wish they'd take your tongue, too, as 
well as your nose, you stupid rascal-wiU you answer 
jj^Q — do you sleep here ? 

I)e7imi--Sleev'l--sleep is it ? In^ow I only ax your- 
self, Masther Garald, could you sleep with fifty couple 
of rats dancing counthry dances over you on the bed— 

^ ''^L?d-71s\ze.)-It's perfectly useless to expect 
an answer from this stupid scoundrel, and yet he seems 
to know something of me, and might P^^-^yy^^^^^^^^ 
a servant of this old money lender, solve this riddle, it 
I could induce him to tell me what he does know.— 
(Aloud.)— See, my good fellow, whatever you name is 

Demiy.-Dem-^y, sir, Denny Conner, that's the name 

^^^GerZ^^ then, Denny Conner, ^^ jou ^'?;^| 
yourself, why do you remain here, if you dislike the 

^^ X>ewwl— :For the best raison in life then, sir, bekase 
I have no where else to go, an' it's onloocky to throw 
out dirty wather until a body can get clane. 

Qeralcl—Ave you wiUing to leave this place, if you 
could find a more comfortable one ? 

j)emiv.-Ou, wow ! Is a duck willm' to swim, 1 
wondher— I dunna would a dog ate mate I -Be my 
80wl, when the rats ate a few more suppers oft o me 
its a hght load my bones ^ud have to carry any ho^.. 
Am I wiUin' ? faix that's not so bad ! ^ 

Gerald.— Do you know any one to give you a chai- 
acter ? 



36 GEORGE SSYMOUE. [ACT 11. 

Denny. — A carracktber is it ? may be I haven't one 
ill my pocket this present minnit — mockins I haven't 
— only wait a bit — whisht now. — {^Proceeds to overhaul 
his lyocket — laying each article on the floor — soliloquising .~) 
That's a cUiclheen ; its gettin' bittherer every day, an' 
no wondher for it, many a bitther thought wint through 
it wid the smoke. There's one, two, three, four — four 
buttons ; thim's off m.y livery ! There's the duplicate 
of Masther Tom's okl wais'coat — fourpince, the divle a 
farthin' more they'd give. That's a bad sixpenny ; it's 
like a raal frind, it'll stick to you through thick and 
thin, an' no fear of its ever being changed. A bit of 
tobakky -, begorra, I'm richer nor I thought — tobakky 
is an Ingian weed that grows up in the mornin' — lie 
there beside the pipe for a minnit, I'll be talkin' to you 
bymby. Arrah, the curse of Crummcl on you, for one 
paper, where the mischief are you at all, at all? — 
You'll be the last thing I'll come to, I'll go bail; more 
haste the worst speed, alwa^'-s — v/hisht, here it is at 
last — there's the least taste of grase on the outside of 
it, but look at it, Masther Eochefort — may be that 
isn't somethin' like a carrackther. — {Handing if to him.') 
(lerald. — {TaUng it tenderly between his fingers, aiul 
opens it carefully. — Heads.) — 

'■Be it known to all wdiom it may concern, that the 
bearer — if the same be Dennis Conner — is the great- 
est rascal from this to himself; and that I'll back him 
— giving the loDg odds — to do more mischief, tell more 
lies, and drink more whiskey in a day, than any other 
man, woman or child, at present extant. If any gen- 
tleinan should feel inclined to take np my bet, just let 
him inquire at Mrs. Taylor's bonrding house, in I>en- 
ziJle siroei, for oviq Tom Ckosbie," 

(Gerald Imuihs hrnridir^ 



SCENE 11.] (iEOKGE SEYiMUTJil. 37 

Denny. — The divlc, Mastlicr Garald^ an' 'iid you be 
luakin' merry Avid a poor boy's feelins' ? An' isn't ye 
be afther jokin', Misther Eochefort, hinny ? 

Gerald. — No, Denn}?-, I read it just as your friend 
Mr. Crosbie wrote. Not a word did 1 add or leave out. 
It is a pleasant character he gives you. 

Denny. — {^Hls face assmning the most ludicrous expres- 
sion, half anger, half disappointment.) — The divle doubt 
you lor that same thrick, Masther Tom Crosbie ; sure 
if I wasn't a fool, I might aisy know that's the way 
you'd sarve me — if I was your mother 'twould be all 
the same — you'll have your bit of fun, no matther who 
pays the piper ] but only wait ! if I don't be even wid 
you for the same turn, it's a quare thing ! 

Gerald. — Well, Dennis, I'll see about this to-mor- 
row ; I know what sort of a gentleman Mr. Tom 
Crosbie is ; the devil is not always as black as he's 
painted, and perhaps I can do something for you. I 
suppose your master up stairs, has been listening to 
every word. 

Denny. — {Aside.) — Lis'nin' ! indeed ! He'd want 
long ears to hear lis from where he is by this time, I'm 
thinkin'! (Gerald tvalks to the door.) Good night, 
Masther Garald — good night, sir — and when you come 
again, may be 

Gerald. — (Sharply.) — What do you know about my 
coming again ? — have you been listening, too ? 

Denny. — Walls have ears, (slyly,) and so have I, 
Mastlier Garald — good night, sir. [^JExit. 

Gerald. — That bo^^ knows more than ho pretends, 
but I'll discover it all before many hours. \_Exit, 



38 GEORGE SEYMOUR. [ACT II. 

SCENEIII. 

Drawi3s-g Eoom. — [Emma Aubyn discovered reading.] 
Enter George Seymour. 

Emma Aubyn. — You have come now to fulfil your 
promise ? 

i^eymour. — AVhat promise ? 

Emma Aubyn. — That which jovl made Avhen I last 
saw you — that^ upon your return you would openly 
declare yourself my guardian^ and end all this strange 
mystery ? You have come to do this ? 

Seymour. — I have ; the promise shall be kept ; I will 
see Mrs. Eochefbrt at once — wdiere is she ? 

Emma Aubyn. — In her own chamber. Shall I tell 
her you are here ? 

Seymour. — Presently ; but first, I have a question 
or two to ask. Her son has never been told anything 
that has passed between us ? has never been informed 
that you had a second guardian ? 

Emma Aubyn. — Eever b}^ me; and, I am sure, the 
subject has never since been alluded to by his mother. 

Seymour. — So much the better. He must not hear 
that you have ever seen me before. 

Efnma Aubyn. — Could not he be told that I had, all 
through, been aware of the fact of having a second 
guardian ? 

Seyynour. — To what end ? How would this amend 
matters ? 

Emma Aubyn. — It would, at least, make his mother's 
conduct appear less unaccountable. 

Seymour, — His mother, I tell you, has chosen her 
own line of action, and must abide by it. 



SCENE III.] GEORGE SEYMOLR. 89 

Emma Auhyn. — But ^vliat objection can you have, 
that it should not be as X say '{ AVhy give cause for 
trouble and unhappiness, if it can be avoided ? 

Seymour. — It cannot be avoided ! It must come, 
and the sooner the better. 

Emma Aiihyn. — What mean you? 

Seymour. — This 1 Mrs. Eochefort has robbed 3^ou — - 
she must be punished ! 

Emma Aubyn. — Punished? I do not understand 
you. 

Seymour. — 1 say she has robbed you. — Should not 
crime be punished ? 

Emma Aubyn. — Still I do not understand you. 

Seymour. — Listen. This is the first week in March ; 
in three weeks more you will be eighteen. At that 
age, you were to have received a thousand pounds; it 
was placed in Mrs. Eochefort's hands for that purpose 
— she has spent it — it will not be forthcoming. It is 
my duty to see that justice is done tovvards you — she 
shall go to prison. 

Emma Aubyn. — Prison! You cannot mean, that 
she^ who has filled the place of a mother to me for so 
many years, should be sent to i)rison for having done 
that which I would freely have consented to, had she 
but confided in me, Wh}^ should you try to ahtra^n me 
in this way ? 

Seymour. — I have no wish to alarm you. I have 
only told you what must occur. — I merely do my duty. 

Emma Aubyn. — Your duty ! Is it your duty to 
bring ruin on the head of one, but for whom I might 
have been thrown without a friend or home upon the 
world? What do you take me for? Do you think, 
even if she had wronged me to a thousand times the 
amount, that I would suffer her to be injured — to be 
accused, much less, punished for it ? 



40 GEORGE SEYMOUR. [aCT II. 

Seymour. — You cannot prevent it: you will have 
nothing to do with it. It must be ! 

Enmia Auhyn. — I tell you it must not be! What I 
let my benefactress^ my second mother^ be brought to 
shame and disgrace on my account? IsTever ! Am 
1 lost to all gratitude, think you, that 1 should yield 
such a return for years of care and kindness? 

Seymour. — Once more, I tell you, you will have no- 
thing to do with it. You have been shamefully de- 
frauded, and it becomes my duty, as a guardian, to 
take care that you shall at least have justice 1 

Emma Aubyn. — Justice ! Do you speak to me of 
justice such as this? In what way could it benefit 
me, should your threats be put into execution ? — 
What service 

Seymour. — You shall hear. Mrs. Eochefort's son 
has the remnant of a small property left him by his 
father— his mother has already dissipated the greater 
portion of it, but, rather than see her in a prison, he 
will sacrifice what remains — and then the sum which 
you are entitled to may be recovered. 

Emma Aubyn. — Merciful Heaven ! this is horrible ! 
What have you ever seen in my conduct, sir, that you 
should dare to propose to me such a plan as this ? — 
Oh ! I cannot believe that you are serious — it is cruel 
to tamper with me in this manner ! 

Seymour. — (Aside.) — Before I can bring her to my 
scheme, I must touch a chord that will vibrate more 
powerfully to her heart, than aiij leeling I have as 
yet awakened. (To Emraa.) — Emma, you do not 
know how this woman has wronged you. 

Emma Aubyn. — I do — have you not informed me ? 

Seymour. — I have not; nor would I now, but to 
prove to you that she deserves neither pity nor mercy 
at your hands. 



SCENE III.] GEORGE SEYMOUR. 41 

Emma Auhyn. — -She deserves both, and she shall 
find them. Had she not felt pity for me when I was 
brought to her desolate and friendless, what would 
have been my fate ? 

Seymour. — If you knew all, perhaps you might 
change 3'our feelings. 

Emma Auhyn. — 1 will never change them. 

Seymour. — What if I should tell 3^ou that, she has 
interfered with your happiness, in a way you never 
dreamed of ? 

Emma Auhyn. — My happiness ! What happiness 
have I ever known ? 

Seymour. — But for her you might have known it. 

Em^na Aubyn. — I do not understand. What mean 
you? 

Seymour. — (^Looking intently on her faceC) — You loved 
her son 1 

Emma Aubyn. — Sir ! 

Seymour. — You loved her son I (Emma covers her 
face with her hands.) You loved him, Emma, and even 
now, when his heart is given to another — when he is 
lost to you forever — you love him still. I will tell 
you now what you have never known before — your 
love was returned. 

Emma Auhyn. — (Quickly raising her head.) — Who 
told you this ? 

Seymour. — He confided his secret to his mother.— 
Now, do you compi'ehend how she has wronged you? 

Emma Aubyn. — No, no, I can comprehend nothing. 
I feel as though it were all a dream! Tell me— oh, 
tell me at once ! 

Seymour. — Gerald had been but a short time at home, 
after his return from abroad, when he began to feel 
tow^ard you something more than brotherly affection 
— this feeling grew rapidly into passionate love 



42 GEORGE SEYMOUR. [ACT II. 

Mnma Aubyn.—BtSij I If this indeed be true — il it 
be possible — why did I never know it — or by what 
means has it been made known to you? 

Seymour. — You shall hear presently ; but let me 
:finish. He was poor — he saw no prospect of ever 
possessing sufficient wealth to marry -, and honor pre- 
vented him from endeavoring to win your aifections, 
when unhappiness alone would be the result. He 
determined to leave his home, lest the strength of his 
passion should overcome his resolution : with this 
intent he sought his mother, told her his determina- 
tion, and contided to her the c«use 

Emma Aubyn. — He did this ? His mother, then, 
knew it ? 

Seymour. — She did. His determination to leave did 
not suit her — it would have lessened her means, already 
small. Neither did she like the idea of his marrying 
you, for her last hope was, and is, that he should 
obtain a wealthy bride, by means of whose riches, 
she hoped to be restored to the station she had lost. 
This hope was a thousand times dearer to her than 
either your happiness or that of her son. To accom- 
plish this, her resolution was instantly taken. It was 
this — to make Gerald believe that you already loved 
another 

Emma Aubyn. — My God ! can this be true ? 

Seymour. — It can, and is. JS^o considerations have 
the shghtest weight with her, where her personal in- 
terest is concerned. 

Emma Aubyn. — But Gerald could not have believed 
this ? 

Seymour.— Re did believe it. His mother told 
her story too artfully, to let him feel a doubt on the 
subject. 

Em.ma Aubyn.— What else did she tell him? 



SCENE III.] GEORGE SEYMOUR. 4S 

Seymour. — This — that shortly before his return you 
had been betrothed to a j^oung Collegian, who had 
been suddenly obliged to depart with his father, on a 
three years' tour to the ContineDt, Gerald's distress 
on hearing this was great; be tlioaght it would be 
worse than dishonorable to continue his attentions, 
and from that moment he determined to conquer his 
passion, by every means in his power. 

Emma Aubyn. — My God ! my God I that I had 
known this before it w^as too late I 

Seymour. — It may not be too late yet. 

Emma Auhyn. — (^Eagerly.) — -How^ — not too late? 

Seymour. — It is possible that it may not be; if you 
wish it, it shall be probable. 

Emma Aubyn. — Probable ! jou would not trifle with 
me now ? it would be cruel — verj^ cruel ! 

Seymour. — Suppose this Miss Franks should never 
become his wife '/ 

Emma Aubyn. — Ah ! you spoke of this before. 

Seyynour. — I did — all depends on you. 

Emma Auhyn. — On me ! how 1* 

Seymour. — You can assist me in breaking off this 
match. 

Emma Auhyn. — (^Raising her head proudly.') — I as- 
sist you ! Do j-'ou think, sir, because I have been be- 
trayed into this weakness before jou, that I would 
be capable of descending to such an act as this ? Do 
you think I would be guilty of such baseness as to se- 
cure my own happiness, by the destruction of an- 
other's? What have I done to deserve this insult? 

Seymour. — (^Coldly.) — Pardon me — I was mistaken. 
You led me to suppose that you still loved this young 
man. I find I have been in error. 

Eynma Auhyn. — It is because I do love him still, that 
I Bcorn such an act as you propose. If he over had 



44 GEORGE SEYMOUR. [aCT II. 

any affection for me, it is past ; he has given it to an- 
other — he loves her now — let them be happy — I— I — • 
hope they may. — {Holding down her head and lueeping.') 

Seymour. — We will talk no more on this subject, 
since it gives you so much pain ; and, beheve me, I 
would not have mentioned it at all, if I had not thought 
it would have been for your good. I will see Mrs. 
Bochefort novr. 

Emma Aubi/n. — Eefore I tell her you are here, let 
me ask you once more, if you are perfectly assured of 
the truth of all you have just told me ? 

Seymour. — I am perfectly. 

Emma Aubyn. — It appears so impossible to me, that 
I find it very hard to believe — very hard. Pardon 
me, but by what means has it come to your knowl- 
edge ? 

Seymour. — Mrs. Eochefort, with her own lips, con- 
fessed it to me — and, eyen more than this, boasted of 
it. 

Emma Auhyn. — God of Heaven ! how cruelly I have 
been deceived ! You have caused me much misery, 
sir — very much misery. It would have been far 
kinder to have left me in ignorance of all this. You 
have taught me almost to hate her whom I loved with 
a child's affection : but for you I would never have 
known how cruelly she has wronged me : I would still 
have had a mother. Now, I am alone— alone in the 
wide world : for, from this night— even though I 
should be driven to beg for my support — this shall no 
longer be my home. 

Seymour-. — Let my home be yours, Emma — as your 
guardian, X pray you accept my offer. All I have told 
you, 1 meant in kindness, and in the hope of securing 
your future happiness. If I have erred, forgive me — 
Bay you forgive m.e, Emma, my daughter ? Will yon 



SCENE III.] GEORGE SEYMOUR. 45 

be my daughter? I am rich; my wealth shall be 
yours — Tarn childless; all my heart's love shall be 
centered in you — lam alone in the world; we will be 
companions to each other: you will be my daughter? 

Emma Auhyn. — I do, I do forgive you. You have 
done it for the best. If a daughter's duty and affec- 
tion — if the devotion of my future life — can prove my 
gratitude, they shall be yours. 

Seymour. — L(^t this kiss seal our covenant. Hence- 
forth we are father and child. And now to business. 
You will leave this house with me to-night? 

Emma Aubyn. — No — not to-night — not to-night. — 
I wish before I go, to— to — see — Gerald. 

Seymour. — It must not be, Emma. Give over this 
wish, my child, and I promise that you shall meet 
again before many days. 

Emma Aubyn. — But when he discovers that 1 am 
gone, what can he think ? 

Seymour. — He shall know the truth : to his mother 
shall be left the task of informing him. 

Emma Aubyn. — What ? Of every thing ? 

Seymour. — Of every thing. Unless, as quite possi^ 
ble, she should invent another story to deceive him. — 
I will, how^ever, take care that he shall know the 
flxcts. As soon as we reach home, you may write 
to him, aiid also, his mother, explaining to them the 
circumstances under which you acted, and which 
caused jow to seek another home, 

Emma Aubyn. — Then I will go with you, and if I 
am acting ungratefully, may God forgive me ! 

[^Exeuent, 



46 QEORaE SEYMOUR. [ACT II. 



SCENE IV, 



Enter George Seymour. — [Disguised in a large Cloak — his face 
almost entirely concealed by a large fur collar— his Hat 
pressed down over his forehead.] 

Seymour. — Boy ! — {Calling.^ 

Enter Denny Conner. 

Benny. — Good mornin', sir; it's a pleasant mornin' 
for walkin', sir. 

Seymour. — So much the better, for you are about 
to walk. 

Df'nny — I'm not sorry for that same. 

Seymour. — Could not you contrive to hold your 
tongue for half a moment, while I give you your com- 
mands ? — {Sharply.) 

Denny. — I'll do my best. 

Seymour. — Well, then, do you know where Mr. 
Franks lives? 

Denny. — Be my sowl ! if walkin' up and dowm the 
door two or three hours of an evenin' 'ud make me 
know it, I ought to be able to find the way by this 
time- 

Seymour.— Silence, fool ! and listen to me. 

Denny.- — Yes, sir. 

Seymour. — (^Sternly.) — You had better not interrupt 
me again. 

Denny. — Ko, sir, I won't say another word. 

Seymour. — ^Listen to me then. 

Denny. — I'm lis'nin', sir. 



SCENE IV.] GEORGE SEYMOUR. 47 

Seymour. — Take this letter 

Denny. — Yes, sir. 

Seymour. — Silence ! I say. 

Denny. — Main's the word. 

Seymour. — Taive this letter^ and go at once to Mr. 
Franks 

Denny. — I'll go this rainnit, sir. 

Seymour. — Will you hold your tongue? 

Denny. — Am'n't I houldin' it ? 

Seymour. — See Mr. Franks himself, and give it into 
his own hand 

Denny. — But if he's out, sir ? 



Seymour. — Then wait until you see him 

Denny. — But if he sends down word that he won't 
see me? 

Seymour. — Psha ! no matter how you do it, give him 
the letter, and be sure you bring the answer safe 

Denny. — But if I get 710 answer ? 

Seyrnour. — Tell me what he says. 

Denny. — An' if he says nothin' ? 

Seymour. — Confound the boy! Do as I desire you. 
Lose no time. — (^Handing the letter.^ 

Denny. — I won't be while 3^ou'd be sayin' thrapstick I 

Seymour. — Take care you keep that letter safe. 

Denny. — I thought you bid me give it to Misther 
Franks ? 

Seymour. — So I did, you stupid scoundrel. 

Denny. — An' now you bid me keep it. 

Seymour. — Was there ever such a brute 1 Begone 
this instant ! 

Denny. — Are you goin' to stop here? 

Seymour. — You'll find me here when you return. 

\_Exit. 

Denny. — May be you think I'm not wide awake for 
you! — may be you think I don't know what you're 



48 GEORGE SEYMOUR. [ACT II. 

about ! but I'll soon let you know wbat's what. I'm 
wide awake ! I'm up to snuff! Walls have ears, and 
so have II Ah ! Dinn3', me boy ! I have it ! There's 
that Torn Crosbie : he desaved me about my earrack- 
ther. the divle roast him ! But he's a frind of Masther 
Garald, an' if any thino-'s wrong in this letther, he'll 
help me find it out. Divle a word can I read, or I'd 
open it meself. The old haythen, he little thought he 
had two pair of ears lis'nin', when he threatened to 
put Masther Eochefort's mother in prison. Oh, the 
nayger ! But walls have ears, and so have I ! So here's 
to Masther Tom's. ^JExit. 



SCENE Y. 

DEAWING ROOM. 

Eriter George Seymour. — [After walking the room hurriedly for 
a few moments, approaches the Table and rings the Bell.] 

Enter Servant. 

Seyynour. — Tell your Mistress that Mr. Seymour is 
here, and wishes to see her instantly. 

[Exit Servant. 

Enter Mrs. Rochefori, 

Mrs. R.— (Advancing ioioards Sey7nour.) — Yillain I 
what is this you have done ? What frightful crime 
do you contemplate, that you have forced this young 
girl from her home? 

Seymour. — When you have quite done performing 
the part of a Pythoness, and think proper to use Ian- 



SCENE v.] GEORGE SEYMOUR. 49 

gnagc a little less violent, I may perhaps give the iii- 
lormation you require. 

3Irs. B. — Oh, Clod ! grant me patience, for my trials 
are great ! Man ! I ask you Vv'hat is this you have 
done ? Why have you taken away this child ? 

Seymour.-— As to what I have done, you can be at 
no loss to knovv^; and as to having taken away your 
ward, I beg at once to undeceive you, by refering you 
to her letter, from which you will perceive that she 
has acted of her own free will. 

3Irs. M. — Yes I her own free will ! But what des- 
perate villany has influenced her to exercise that willi^ 
What arts and falsehoods have you used to poison her 
mind against me ? 

Seymour.— -'^oiiQ whatever, Madam. If you will be 
good enough to recollect yourself for a moment, I 
think you will allow that the simple truth would be 
quite sufficient. This I have tokl her, but nothing 
more. 

Mrs. M. — I will not believe it! I cannot believe 
that the mere fact of my leaving ■ 

Seymour.— -JRohbecl her ! 

Mrs. R. Having appropriated her fortune, could 

make her take this step, without a word of notice or 
explanation- 

Seymour.— Oh, every one may not think so lightly 
and forgivingly of the crime of robbery as Mrs. Eoche- 
fort. 

Mrs. II. — {Covering her face with her hands, and sink- 
ing into a chair.)— God pity me, for this man has no 
mercy. 

Seymour.-— lieTCj I what mercy have you deserved ? 

Where was your mercy when you crushed the heart 

that loved you better than all things on earth, or in 

Heaven— -when you drove to madness and desperation 

S 



60 GEORGE SEYMOUK. [ACT II. 

one wbo^ but for you, might have won from the world 
a proud and honorable name^ instead of being plunged 
into a career of vice and villany- — changing this world 
to a helij that leaves no terrors for the next. Woman ! 
you have changed me to a devil I— (^Bashes his hand 
against his forehead.)-— You ash me why I have.takeii 
away this girl. Listen, and you shall hear— -to be an 
instrument of punishment for the wrong you have 
done to he?'; and to aid me in the fulfilment of that 
revenge which I have sworn against you and yours. 

Mrs. B. — Aid you ! how ? She has never injured 
you. You would not destroy her ? 

Seymour. — Her I E'ot for a thousand worlds ; I will 
cherish her while I live, and at my death she shall 
be mistress of all I possess on earth. When you are 
rotting in a jail, or begging from door to door, the 
orphan you have robbed, whom you would have loft 
to starve, shall shine the proudest amongst those who 
have cast you off forever, and with whom in future 
your name shall be a bye-word and a scorn ! If you 
can glean any comfort from this knowledge, you are 
welcome to it ! 

Mrs. M. — {Bising calmly from_ her chair, and siwaking 
in a clear distinct tone.) — You are deceived—you are 
deceived in thinking that 1 will submit to this : the 
worm at last will turn upon the foot that crushes it. 
My course is now clear before me, and you shall find 
that I, too, can be determined ; this night my son 
shall be informed of everj^hing. 

Seymour.~—'^ViQh. is my intention. For that purpose 
I am here 

31rs. i^.-— What ! and you will dare to face him 
when he has learned all your villany ? 

Seymour.-—! will dare more than that. Madam ; for 
with my own lips I will tell him all that I have done ; 



SCENE v.] GEORGE SEYMOUR. 51 

and moreover, all that you have done ! So you sec 
you are not likely to gain any great advantage by 
your determination. 

Mrs. JR. — If he knew — if my boy knew one half of 
the misery you have caused his parents — one tithe of 
the insults you have offered to his mother — he would 
crush you to the earthy if you had a thousand lives I 
and he shall kno^i^ it ! 

Seymour. — (Aside^) — This will be a losing game un- 
less I play my cards more skillfully. It will not 
answer to meet G-erald, or have his mother see him, 
before I can recover my power over her. (To Mrs. 
JR. — seizing her arm.') — Mark me ! the time has now 
come when all scruples must be thrown aside — Heaven 
nor hell shall baulk me in what 1 have sworn to per- 
form ! Attend well now to what I am about to say, 
for it will be for your own advantage as well as mine, 
that you should act as I direct. You must tell your 
son the same story which I have already told Emma, 
and which you liave confirmed, namely, that I am in 
reality her guardian. You can invent what excuses 
you please for never having informed him of such a 
fact until now, and that will end the matter. 

Mrs. JR. — {Smiling scornfully.) — You need say no 
more ; I will rather bear every evil your malice can 
inflict, than be any longer at your mercy. Were I 
now to act as you desire, you would to-morrow break 
through all your promises as you have done before. 
Your power is over, tempter ! I defy you 1 

Seymour. — Think again, — think again before you 
refuse. You had better. 

Mrs. JR. — I have thought eJready — my resolution is 
fixed — unchangeably fixed. Once more I tell you I 
defy you ! 

Seymour. — Then, by Heaven ! you shall curse the 



52 GEORGE SEYMOUR, [ACT II. 

liour you did so I Had you yielded to my will, I 
might have spared you — for the sake of her who shall 
henceforth be my child^ I might have spared you ; but 
BOW, noiD, I will crush you, mind, and heart,, and soul, 
as you have crushed me, Y\dthout pity, and without 



remorse 



Mrs. R. — I no longer fear you, for 1 have resolved 
to atone for the past, by pursuing a right course for 
the future, and the consciousness of this good resolu- 
tion gives me nev/ strength to uphold me in my pre- 
sent trial. What more is there in your power than to 
tell my son that which 1 am myself resolved to tell 
him ! and you will then be more in his power than 
either he or I in yours. What infatuation has been 
over me that 1 have not done this before I 

Seyniour. — Woman ! you do not know what I am 
capable of doing, ii you drive me to desperation ! 

Mrs. B. — You mistake ; I know full well that you 
are capable of every viliany that could enter the mind 
of man. 

Seymour. — And, believing this, you still defy me ? 

Mrs. R. — Yes ! a thousand times, yes! 

8eyriiour. — Then mark me I 1 will do that which 
shall make you such an object of loathing to your 
child, that, rather than live the son of such a mother, 
he will lift his OAvn hand against his life — that he will 
forfeit his soul in the next world, rather than endure 
in this the disgrace that your name will bring upon 
him — and go to his doom calling down curses on you 
with his dying breath ! 

Mrs. It. — Oh, God ! what a fiend has this man be- 
come I 

Seymour. — A fiend ! yes, and who has made me one ? 
But you little dream of what I will yet do to deserve 
the narae ! You think, perhaps, that my threats are 
idle ? 



SCENE v.] (iEORGE SEY310LTK. 53 

Mrs. R. — I care not what they are. I despise them I 
Seyinour. — (^Aside.) — There is still one desperate 
chance left me — let that foil and my power over her 
is ended. Her honor ! all that she has left to cling to ! 
—I will hazard the scheme ! (To Mrs. R.) — Eemem- 
ber 3^ou have driven me to this ; a few VvT>rds might 
have saved you — might yet save you^ if you consent 



2Irs. R. — Never ! I hold no ftiith with you in future 
— do your worst ! 

Seymour. — Listen , then ! — (Advances close to her.) — 
Your son already knows the stoiy of his father's ruin 
— he knows that I was the cause of it — that the en- 
tire of his property was mortgaged to me, and is still 
in my possession 3 — and, knov\^ing this, what think 
you, will be his feelings, when he discovers that since 
that father's death, you have carried on an intercourse 
with me — that you have done so secretly — and that 
within the last few^ months, 3'ou joined V\nth me in a 
plot to make your ward believe that I, as w^ell as you, 
had been named her guardian — v/hen he discovers all 
this, I say, what can he think? Must he not believe 
that you had some powerful motive for acting as you 
have done ? and, once suspicion awakened, wijl it not 
be a task of but little difficulty to convince him that 
(Fausing.) 

Mrs. i?.— What I For God's sake, what ? 

Seymour. — Can you not conjecture ? 

Mrs. R. — J^o, no ! in mercy, speak at once ! What 
would you convince him ? 

Seymour. — (Stooping his head close to her ear and 
hissing fiercely.) — That his father was dishonored I 

Mrs. R — (Springing to the middle of the floor — she 
gazes at him for an instant loith distended eyes — ptresses 
her hands upon her forehead — staggers to a table — but for 



54 GEORGS SEYMOUR. [ACT II. 

the support of vjJiich she loould fall to the floor.') — God of 
mercy ! can such a villain be the work of thy hand ? 
Can a man made in thy image, be given a mind to 
prompt him to such helHsh thoughts ? 

Seyinour. — I told jow you little dreamed of what I 
was capable ] remember you have driven me to it ; 
the consequences be upon your ov/n head ! But; even 
still it is in your power to avert your ruin — consent 
to make to your son the explanation I desire, and I 
hold my peace. — {JDraws near her.) 

Mrs. B. — ( With a look of loathing motions him hack.) 
If you are human — if a remnant of manly feeling yet 
lingers in your nature — leave me ! My brain is turn- 
ing to fire — my heart is bursting — reason can bear no 
more ! — ( With clasped hands and straining eyes, she 
stands before him.) 

Seymour. — Let there be an end to this acting; you 
should, by this time, have learned its fruitlessness, to 
change my purpose. Turn your thoughts to what 
may still save you — a few minutes more, and it will 
be too late, for, so sure as there is a Heaven above us, 
if your son returns while I am here, I will fulfill my 
threat ! Consent to what I have demanded, and I 
leave you now — forever ! 

Mrs. B. — (After a pause.) — This is terrible ! — horri- 
ble ! Oh ! my son ! my noble boy ! God keep him 
from the slightest suspicion of this foul attempt to 
poison his mind against his mother! Harm him not, 
sir ! I accept your promise of leaving me for the rest 
of my life in peace, and I promise to do aB you desire ! 
(^Droppiiig on her knees and clasping her hands.)- — Oh, 
God ! aid me in this terrible struggle !■ — {Falls.) 

{Seymour looks on ivith a smile of triumph.) 

END OF SECOND ACT. 



SCENE I.] GEORGE SEYMOUR. 



ACT I I I .— S (J E N K T . 

HALL. 

Enter Denny Conner. 

Benny. — Shure, he can't ate me^ any how, an' if the 
worst comes to the worsts may be he might come off 
second best afther all ! If he isn't the clivle — Lord 
betime us an' harm — we'll tache him a thrifle before 
he's much older — we'll let him know what's what — - 
yis, be me sowl, cakes an' ale we'll give him. I'm a 
fool ; oh ! yis, of coorse I am — I couldn't find out a 
saycret at all — I couldn't listen through a kay hole — 
oh, no ! is it me ? I can do nothiu' — not a ha'j^'orth 
— it ^11 be a while afore I ate house beetles for my sup- 
23er, for all that. Wondher where the ould divle is — 
he said he'd be here when I returned. Faix, Mdien I 
got into the strate, a suddint pain tuk me right there 
— (lilts his Jm.ee,) and I couldn't walk — oh, no ! not a 
bit. — (Dances.) I got into a cart, — the cart got lost 
— an' the hoss died, an' the driver ran off an' got 
dhrunk, an' left me in the cart fast aslape ! I'll look 
into the rooms an' see if he's here, anyhow ! Who's 
atraid ! — (Opens the doors and looks into the different 
rooms opening into the Hall.) — Be gorra, he's not here, 
any how, — got tired waitin' for me. I'm thinkin' I'll 
take a sate. — (Seats himself near the front, E. II., facing 
audience.) 

Seymour. — (Out side.) — Boy I 

Denny. — (Looking round the Hall to ascertaiii ivhence 
the voice proceeded.) — Why, then, where are joii at all^ 



56 GEORGE SEYMOUR. [aCT III. 

Enter George Seymour — [Beliind Denny — Disgiiislied in a large 
Cloak, Ills face hidden by the collar.] 

Seymour. — Here ! — {Benny turning round, discovers 
him.) 

Den7iy. — (Sjyririging from his seat.) — Lord save iis I 
did you come out of the wall ? 

Seymour. — (Sharj)ly.) — What has detained yon? 

Denny. — (After a little hesitation.') — He was out^ sir. 

Seymour. — Who was out ? 

Denny. — Why, Misther Franks, of coorse. 

Seymour. — Then you did not see him ? 

Denny. — No, sir. 

Seymour. — Give me the letter. — (Denny looks confu- 
sed.) — Give me the letter, I say. 

Denny. — The letther, sir ? 

Seymour. — Yes, give it to me. 

Denny. — Do you want it back, sir ? 
■ Seymour. — Yes, I say — where is it ? 

Denny. — I thought I was to give it to Misther 
Franks'? 

Seymour. — You say you did not see him 

Denny. — But niay be I might see him in the evenin'. 

Seymour. — (Harshly.) — Cease this trifling, boy, and 
give me the letter. 

Denny. — 'Twould be hard for me. 

Seymour. — What ? ¥/here is it ? 

Denny. — (Boldly.) — Lord knows I 

Seymour.— (Furiously. )-Wlmt have you done with it ? 

Denny. — I have done nothin' Vvdth it. 

Seymour. — Where is it then ? 

Denny. — (Carelessly.) — Lost ! 

Seymour. — (Starting back.) — liost ! 

Denny. — Yis, lost ! I hope nothin' partikL^r was in 



SCENE II.] GEORGE SEYMOUR. 57 

Seymour. — {Sternly, and seizing Denny by- the throat.) 
Scoundrel! you have done something with that let- 
ter. 

Denny. — {Innocently. — Oh, Lord i — is it me ? What 
in the world 'ud I do with it ? 

Seymour. — Mark me, boy ! if I find that you have 
been trifling with me, you shall pay dearly for it. Can 
you read ? 

Denny. — I wish I could. 

Seymour. — Will you swear that you have not that 
letter still in your posaesblon ? 

Denny. — {Seizing the back of his chair.y-BQ this book I 

Seymour. — Psha ! follow me up stairs. 

lExeueni. 



SCENE II. 

Sbtmoup.'s Room. — [Furnistied same as in Scene 1, Act 2, with 
the exception that the Table is clear.] 

Enter George S'-^yttiour and Denny Co7%ner. 

f Seymour seats himself at the Table, and motions Denny to come 
nearer. Denny glances suspiciously around him.] 

Seymour. — You have a mother ? 

Denny. — I have, sir ; an' tv/o brothers an' a little 
sisther. 

Seymour. — I need not ask if they are poor ? 

Denny. — They are. — {Feelingly.') — God help 'em ! 

Seymour. — You shall have means to make them rioh^ 
if you serve me faithfully. Can I trust you ? 

Denny. — {Evasively.') — I'd do anythin' to earn an 
honest penny. 
h 



58 GEORGE SEYMOUE, [aCT Ilt- 

Seymour. — Have you a father ? 

Bejiny, — (In a loio voice.)— He's dead, sir, — ^ttie Lord 
liave mercy on him ! 

'Sey77iou?\—And your family have no support but you? 

Denny.- — Barrin' the thrifle my mother aims for 
doin' a day's work here and there, an' that's but httle. 

Seymour. — She shall have plenty, if 1 can but trust 
you — can I do so ? 

Denny. — {Evasively.) — Did I ever do anythin' to 
make you doubt me since I came here ? 

Seymour. — N'ever, until to-day. 

Denny. — An' why to-day, sir I 

JSeymoiir.—Thsit letter. 

Denny. —(Innocently.) — Sure I couldn't help losin' it, 

Seymour. — Well, I will believe you ; but if you should 
play me false, you shall suffer dearly. Answer me, 
yes, or no— may I trust you ? 

Demiy. — (Aside.) — I must say yis, or how the divle 
will I find out his plans — yis, that's the only chance. 
(To Seymour — boldly.) — You may, sir, 

Seymour. — Then listen. You know the gentleman 
who was here a few nights since — Mr. Eochefort ? 

Denny. — Yis, sir. 

Seymour. — Well, attend now to what I am about to 
tell you. I overheard your conversation the other 
night, and it is probable he may take you as his ser- 
vant. If he does, you will have an opportunity of 
providing me with a knowledge of his actions, which 
would be of great use to me. Are you willing to un- 
dertake this? 

Denny. — Is it to be a spy ? 

/Sei/mdwr.— -CaU it what you will, but it will be for 
Ms benefit as well as mine. 

Denjiy.- — (Indignantly.) — An' is that what you call 
feein' faithful ? 



iCENB U.] GEOIiaE SEYMOUR. 55 

Seymour. — You say I can trust you, and this is th© 
service I require. 

Denny.— {Indignantly.)— M\ij, thin, a dirty sarvic© 
it is. 

Seymour.— V^hiit ?— (Starting from Ms seat.)—'EiiiVQ 
you been trifling with me ? 

Benny. — (Recollecting himself.) — Is it me, sir ? Not; 
meself, in troth ; I was only thinkin' that may be 
some people wouldn't considher it a very dacent soort 
of employment ; but I'll do it with a heart and a half 
— I'll watch him like a cat watchin' a mouse — there 
isn't a turn of his hand, from the time he gets up in 
the mornin' till he goes to bed at night, that I won't 
have my eye on. 
■ Seymour. — So far so good ; and now you must com- 
mence at once. But, stay ! you have known him be- 
fore ? 

Benny. — '^o more than the child unborn, barrin' to 
see him once or twice. 

Sey^nour. — Well, then, you shall have another letter 
to Mr. Franks this evening. Mr. Eoehefort will pro- 
bably be there. If he is, watch him, and tell him you 
have been turned away from this place for speaking to 
him the other night — ^you understand me ? He will be 
sure to take you into his service at once, for, even as 
it is, he is anxious to learn my secrets, and he thinks 
you can discover them. Tell him you have lived with 
me for some time — that I am a rich old miser — that I 
live here alone, never seeing a human being but those 
who come to look for money, and that your business 
was to watch the house during my absence, and run 
of messages now and then. You must never divulge 
anything you may have seen or heard since you came 
here, but you may invent as many lies as you please, 
the greater the better — concerning me. Do you un- 
derstand? 



60 GEORaE SEYMOUR. [ACT III. 

Denny. — It's as plain as the nose on my face. 
Seymour. — That will do. [Exit. 

Denny. — Oh ! you dasaiving ould villain of the 
world — you thundherin' ould Turk of a vagabone ! — 
Tm up to your thricks — I'll watch, never fear, but it's 
yourself, an' nobody else — you make me rich — you 
give my mother plinty ! I wouldn't touch your goold, 
now that I know you, not if I was starvin' ; an' I'd 
sooner see my mother stretched lyin' dead before me, 
than she should handle a fardin' or half a fardin' of 
the wages of villany an' dasate. If we're poor we're 
honest, an' where's the man, woman, or child, that 
oould point a finger at aither of us this minnit, an' say 
we ever done 'em an ill turn ? That's more than he 
can say the dishilute ould haythen — it i^.— -{Walks 
proudly through the room.) 

JRe-^nter George Seymour. 

Seymour. -"-1 have changed my mind ; I shall not 
write to Mr. Franks until to-morrow. But see Mr. 
Boehefort to-night if possible, and let me know in the 
morning how you have succeeded. 

Denny. — Am I to slape here to-night, sir ? 

"Seymour. — IS'o, I shall not want you. To-morrow 
early you will find me here— -meanwhile be cautious. 

[Exit. 

't>enny. — He's not the divle afther all, or I couldn't 
dasaive him that way : but faix he's a near relation^ 
I'm thirikin'. [Bxit. 



SCENE III.] GEORGE SJ1.YMOUR. 61 

SCE:NE III. 

Gerald Rochefort's Eoom. — [Gerald discovered writing.] 

Enter Tom Crosbie. 

Tom, — Gerald, my boy, bow are you ? Delighted 
IVe caught you at home. Come, throw aside that 
billet-doux, for the present — you can finish it by 'nd 
by — the lady will lose nothing by the delay, for I'll 
help you with a few metaphors when business is con- ■ 
eluded. Swan-like neck, snowy bosom, golden hair, 
diamond eyes, ruby lips, pearly teeth, and all that sort 
of thing. We'll make her out a sort of animated 
Golconda, or compare her to one of the pieces of raw 
beef brought up by the eagles from Sinbad's " Yalley 
of Diamonds." There's an idea for you, you dog! — 
QSlaps him on the shoulder.) 

Gerald. — Well, Crosbie, — (laughing,') — I believe if 
you were sentenced to speak seriously for five minutes, 
it would be your death. Were yon ever serious since 
you were born ? 

Tom. — Serious I Sir, you insult me by the question ! 
In comparison to m.e, Calvin was a clown, and Martin 
Luther a merryandrew ! When I was Prime Minister 
to the King of Ashantee, his Majesty surnamed me 

the , I needn't repeat the words, since you 

don't understand the language, but in the vernacular 
they signify — the '' Sugar-stick of Sense," and the 
"Winnowing Machine of Wisdom.'^ What do you 
think of that, sir ? Was Sir Eobert Peel ever called 
a sugar-stick of sense, let me ask you ? or Lord Mel- 
bourne, a winnowing machine of wisdom ? J^o, sir ! 
nov never will ! The Majesty of England has its gold- 



62 GEORGE SEYMOUR. [ACT III, 

Stick; and its silver-stick, but it never yet has been 
able to find a man sufficiently saccharine to enable 
him to be called a sugar-stick ! 

Gerald. — (^Laughing.) — I humbly ask pardon of your 
sweetness; in future I shall consider Solomon a fool 
to you, and the '' Wise Men of G-otham '' a society of 
numsculls. Pray, by seated. But, what's the matter 
with you now ? you seem to have grown thoughtful 
all in a minute ; nothing unpleasant has occurred, I 
hope ? 

Tom. — In the first place, my dear Gerald — and I 
know you won't think me intrusive, for thus interfer- 
ing in so delicate a matter — I must tell you that I 
have discovered one or two of your secrets, which, 
perhaps, you would rather had not come to the ears 
of such a harum-scarum individual as your humble 
servant. But just let me tell you how it happened. — 
A few da^^s since Dennis Conner came to me in great 
confusion of mind. Saj^s I, " why you ragged rascal, 
what bringsyou here ? What evil deed is in the wind V 
"That's zY," replied Denny, " the verj^ thing I como 
about — I'm afeard some evil deed is in the wind, Mis- 
ther Tom." "Well," I replied, " out with it at once 
— what the deuce is it?" "Mischief," says Denny, 
"that's what it is; an' schamin',an' all sorts of vagabone 
thricks — divle a less." Well, after a little persuasion, 
he informed me he was living with an old man — a sort 
of money lender — that you paid him a visit not long 
since, and were closeted with the old man for some 
time. Having known you, he felt curious to find out 
the purport of your visit — in short, that he listened at 
the key hole, and that he heard enough to make him 
suspect all was not right. The old man had intrusted 
him with a letter, cautioning him to be particular and 
let nx> one h^ve it^but Mr.^Frauks. Not being able to 



SCENE III.] GEORGE SEYMOUR. 6S 

read himsolf, Denny thought he'd bring it to me be- 
fore he'd deliver it to Mr. Franks. There being no 
direction on the envelope^ 1 concluded to open it, for 
I thought if there was any mischief afloat against you, 
I would like to know it. — I oj^ened the letter, and, 
after reading it, concluded to retain it, and send Den- 
ny back to watch the old man, to see if he could dis- 
cover anything more. This morning Denny came to 
me again. It appears the old man has employed Den- 
ny to pretend to have been discharged for speaking to 
you on the night of your visit, and try and get you to 
take him as your servant. This just suited the plan 
formed by Denny and myself, so he agreed at once to 
the proposal. This he told me this morning. But, 
read that, perhaps it may open your eyes a bit. — 
{Handing letter.) 

Gerald. — ( Reads.') — " Sir — If you value the happiness 
of your daughter, you will, for the present, at least, 
•sufler matters to proceed no further between her and 
the person you have chosen for her husband. The 
writer of this caution, though, for certain reasons, he 
cannot, as yet, appear in his proper person, is a friend 
wKo is deeply interested in both parties, audit is solely 
with their welfare in view that he now acts. His ad- 
vice, however, is, that the visits of Mr. Eochefort may 
be permitted to continue as usual for a few days, in 
the course of which, circumstances now involved in 
some doubt, shall be investigated,. and the result made 
known to you." 

Gerald. — By Heavens ! — (dashing his hand on the 
table,) — the old villain shall pay dearly for this ! I 
will go to him this instant. Crosbie, you will accom- 
pany me ? There is some mystery here that must be 
unravelled — 

Tom. — Take things quietly, my dear fellow. We'll 



64 GEORGE SEYMOUR. [ACT III. 

walk into him before long, with the blessing of the 
Lord ', the longer we let him run his course, the surer 
we'll have him at the end. He's a nice specimen of 
that respectable class called " elderly gentlemen," I 
fancy. But, Gerald, have you any idea of his motives 
for acting toward you as he has done ? 

Gerald. — ]Mot the slightest. Until a night or two 
ago, I never saw him to my knowledge. 

Tom. — It is the strangest thing I ever heard ; for 
my part, I can make neither head nor tail of it, but, 
please the fates, it won't be so long — it's odd if we 
don't unkennel the old fox, and whe7i we do, perhaps 
we won't run him to earth in a style that Melton 
himself might be proud of! Yoicks I my boy ! cheer 
up ; he little knows, this morning, the pleasant sur- 
prise that's preparing for him I But I quite forgot to 
tell you that Denny the Cute is outside w^aiting all 
this time. 

Gerald. — We'll have him in this moment ; but be- 
fore he comes, Crosbie, I must tell you how deeply I 
thank you for your conduct in this affair. I trust I 
may yet have it in my power to do you a similar ser- 
vice. 

Torti. — Thank you kindly, you're mighty civil, but 
if it's all the same to you, I'd rather you'd never have 
the power to do any such thing. I'm bad enough, 
Xord knows, already, without being made the second 
edition of the Mysteries of Udolpho. No, no, Gerald, 
my boy, nothing of the kind ! And as to thanks — -just 
keep them until I ask for them. \_Exit. 

Re-enter Tom CrosUe ivith D&miy Conner. 

Gerald.- — "Well, my friend, so I find that you've been 
committing felony on my behalf. Sit down, and tell 
me all about xi.-^{I)enny seats himself.) 



SCENE III.] GEORGE SEYMOUR. 65 

Tom. — Now, Dinny, you scoundrel, tell Mr. Eoche- 
fort cverj^ thing you have already told me, and don't 
be all day about it. 

Denny. — I won't be while a cat ^ud be lickin' her 
ear. You 3e, sir, I'se a poor boy with a mother, two 
brothers an' a sisther to support, an' in gettin' along I 
am compelled to sarve all kind of rich raskels an' 
vagabones — I lived with Misther Tom Crosbie, here, 
once,, your honor, for two years. V/"ell, about ^sax 
months ago this ould haythen I am now with, come 
across me, an' tuk me to run of errands an' watch 
that ould house where you come the other night, 
while he ^ud be away at his house in another part of 
the city 

Gerald. — What ! do you tell me, that this employer 
of yours does not live in the old house where I visited 
him ? 

Denny. — Yis, sir; sure enough he doesn't. If he 
did he'd be mighty apt to know what sort of a bite a 
rat can give; for of all the places ever I seen, that same 
ould house flogs for the infernal varmint — ^bad loock 
to thim ! 

Tom. — But you know where he does live, Dinny, 
don't 3^ou ? 

Denny. — May be I could make a guess, 

Tom. — Come, then, out with it I 

Denny. — Oh, faix, a snug spot he lives in — a body 
might slaipe there long enough afore the rats ^ud come 
to ate a supper off his nose — divle sind thim an appe- 
tite ! It's thim that's hard to plase ! But sure it's no 
wondher the poor ignorant bastes should bite the nose 
off a poor boy like me, whin I hear people say the 
quality ate the poise's 7iose — Christ save us ! — (^Crosses 
himself.) 



66 GEORGE SEYMOUH. [ACT lit. 

To7?i. — How did you discover the fact of your Mas- 
ter having a different residence ? 

Denny. — Bedad, Masther Tom, the same way a 
'ttorney — (sweet bad looclc to thim !) — once behaved 
like a christian — by chance. — That's how it was. 

Tom. — Well; let us hear it. 

Denny. — Hear which, sir ? About the ^ttorney, is 
it? 

Tom. — (Furiously.)—No I the attorney be damned f 

Denny. — All in good time ! It's how I found out the 
ould thief's saycret you want to hear 1 

Tom. — Yes — and let me warn you to say nothing 
more about either rats or attorn eys, or any other ver- 
min whatever. — Mind that. 

Denny. — Well, you see, gintlemen, the way of it was 
this. On the night Masther Garaid visited the old 
miser, I had began to be suspicious of the ould hay- 
then, an' 1 tuk it into my head to watch, an' see if I 
couldn't make some discoveries — so I put my ear 
to the kay hole, an' heard every blissid word atween 
the ould vagaboneand Masther G-arald, an' I thought I 
eould see a piece of schamin' divlement, that a tailor 
'ud be ashamed of Afther Masther Grarald wint away, 
I thought 1 would lave the ould house to take care of 
itself awhile, an' stroll through the town for an hour 
or so. Well, afther walkin' here a bit an' there a bit, 
I come on to Eaggot strate, and just as I got forninst 
a fine house, I seen a gintleman going into the door. 
Just as the gintleman turned round to close th© door, 
the light of the hall lamp shone bright in his face, an' 
I discovered he was no other than my ould Turk of a 
Master. The wliite hair an' beard were gone, an' so 
was the stoop in the shoulder. Oh, ho ! thought I, 
this is a mighty purty piece of bus'ness ! 

Gerald.— J)o you mean to tell me, that the person 



SCENE III.] GEORGE SEYMOUR. 67 

I saw and conversed with at that mined house, is not 
an old man ? 

Denny. — Truth it's just the very thing I do mane. 

Gerald. — ^And that his hair and beard were not real ? 

Denny. — I don't say that; they are rayal enough, I 
dar' say, but the hair never grew white on Ms head, 
an' mighty little shavin' ^ud go a great way with that 
beard, I'm thinkin'. 

Gerald. — By Heavens ! there is some terrible villany 
here ! but I cannot understand it. My brain is every 
instant becoming more and more confused. Crosbie, 
w^hat is to be done ? 

To7n. — Stop a bit ; tell me this, Dinny — how long 
have you been in the service of this man ? 

Denny. — Four or five months, off an^ on ; some times 
he'd say he was lavin' town, an' send me home for a 
fornight ; more times he'd have me slape there with 
the rats, bad loock to thim ! 

Tom. — And you never suspected, all that time, that 
he was anything but what he appeared to be ? 

Denny. — ISTo, in troth ; I knew he was as rich as a 
Jew, for I ofthen seen hapes of bank notes the height 
of my knee on the table before him, an' divle a much 
I cared what he was, while he paid me my wages. 
But whin he began this bis'ness about Masther G-arald, 
an' uset to sind me to watch him goin' and comin' 
from Masther Franks', I began to smell a rat — an' be 
my sowl I ought to know the smell of thim purty well 
by this time ! So I just tuk it in my head that he 
was no great shakes, an' now I am sure of it. 

Tom. — Did he ever sleep in that old house himself? 

Denny. — Oh, yis, indeed ! What a fool my granny 
was ! 

Tow.. — Did he eat his meals there ? 

Denny. — Not as much as 'ud blind a midge's eye ever 



68 GEORGE SEYMOUR. [ACT III. 

crossed his lips in that same house, barrin' a biscuit 
now an' thin, an' a glass of Avine. 

Tom. — Did any one ever meet him there ? 

Denny. — Ofthen. Men oflhen came there, an' were 
closeted up v/ith him hour afther hour. 

Tom. — Why didn't you put your ear to the keyhole 
then, Dinny ? 

Denny. — Bekase I was a fool : that's just the rason ! 

Tom. — Did you ever hear his name ? 

Denny. — JSTever with his knowledge, 

Gerald. — Then you did hear it ? 

Denny. — I did, sir. The night I found him out, I 
wint an' axed the sarvints next door 

Gerald. — Well, well ? Q,uick, man ! what was it ? 

Denny. — Misther Seymour ! 

Gerald — (^In a loud quick tone.) — What ! did you say 
Seymour f 

Denny. — That's the very word. 

Gerald. — I see it all ! I understand it all, now ! 
The desperate villain ! 

Tom. — Then you know him ? 

Gerald. — Know him! Do I know the man who has 
made me a beggar, and worse — a thousand times worse 

— who has ^{Dauses?) — Crosbie, you shall hear the 

entire story to-night. In the meantime, I will take 
the necessary steps to unravel a portion of this mys- 
ter}^ ) and Dennis, until then, do you return to your 
employer; watch hira well, and bring me intelligence 
of anj^thing that happens. You have done me a 
greater service than you think, and you shall not 
want a friend as long as I live. 

Denny. — Don't spake of that, Masther Garald ; you 
saved the life of my poor ould mother whin she had 
the sickness, glory be to God I an' Denny Conner, for 
all his rags, has feelin' in his heart. — {Turns his head 
and unjjes a tear from his eye.) 



SCENE IV.] GEORGE SEYMOUR. 69 

Tom. — Well, Gerald, my boy ! I told you we'd un- 
kennel the old fox ! [Exeuent Tom and Gerald. 

Denny. — I'm as happy as a king ! an' as to you, niy 
ould Masther. you thunderin' vagabone ! your bread 
is baked ! Only wait a bit ! [Exit singing. 

I'll let 5^ou know, 
Before you go, 
What a beau your granny was ! 



SCENE ly. 
Paklor. — [Mr. Franks discovered walking the Koom.] 
Enter Gerald Rochefort. 

Mr. Franks. — Oh ! good morning, Mr. Eochefort ! 
When did you come to town ? 

Gerald. — I have not been out of town. 

Mr. Franks. — Oh, you haven't, haven't you? then 
may I take the liberty of asking you, where you have 
been? 

Gerald. — Indeed, sir, my absence has been unavoid- 
ble. I am sure you must know that anywhere but 
here I could not be happy. 

Mr. Franks. — I know no such thing, sir ! I don't 
believe a word of it. In 7ny time it was the fashion 
for a man, if he loved a girl, to spend at least some 
portion of his time in her society - 

Gerald. — Indeed, sir 

Mr. Franks. — Fiddlestick! sir. Don't interrupt me. 
I say, in my time, such was the fashion, and let me 
tell you, that if Jessie took m.y advice, she'd have 



70 GEORGE SEYMOUR. [ACT III. 

nothing more to say to you. Do you hear that, sir ? 
If you neglect her so shamefully ^e/ore marriage, what 
may she expect afterward ? 

Gercdd. — But, my dear sir 

Mr. Franks. — Make no excuses, sir ! I'll not listen 
to them. I suppose you would not come even now if 
you had not been sent for ? 

G-erald. — I assure you, sir, I was just leaving the 
house to come, when I received Jessie's note. 

Mr. Franks. — Well, I suppose I must believe you. 
Ah, yes, poor Mary Trevor, it was at her request 
Jessie sent for you. Sit down ; I am in no haj^py hu- 
mor this morning, Gerald, so you must excuse any- 
thing I have said. Yesterday morning I received the 
information of the death of one of my former clerks. 
He had, for ten years, been in India, and I was not 
aware of his return, until I was informed of his death. 
His daughter and Jessie, when children, were as sis- 
ters, and I immediately sent for Mary. It appears 
they had returned about seven years since, nearly all 
of which time he had been confined to his bed, with a 
disease contracted while in India. On the eve of his 
embarkation he was intrusted with a package, and, 
although every effort was made on their part to dis- 
cover the person to whom it was addressed, they were 
not fortunate enough to do so. In a conversation 
between the two girls, Jessie happened to mention 
3^our name. This brought to Mary's memory this 
mysterious package, and, it appears that, however 
strange the coincidence may seem, this paper is ad- 
dressed to you. 

Gerald. — To me ! There must be some mistake. 
What was the name of the person from whom your 
former clerk received it ? 

Mr. Franks. — That I cannot tell. However, as to 



SCENE lY.] GEORCIE SEYMOUR. 71 

a mistake, you will soon have an opportunity of con- 
vincing yourself; for Jessie has the paper. — (^Rings.) 

Enter Servant. 

Inform your Mistress that Mr. Eochefort is here, and 
bid her to come here. [^Exit Servant. 

Enter Jessie Franks ivith the Package. 

Jessie, my love, I have explained to Mr. Eochefort the 
circumstances under which this paper came into poor 
Trevor's hands. — (Jessie hands the package to Geraldy^ 
who glances eagerly over the superscriptioyi.^ 

Mr. Franks. — Well, Gerald, is it for you ? 

Gerald. — It certainly must be, sir; the address puts 
it beyond all possibility of doubt. — (Beads the address.') 
" To be delivered into the hands of G-orald Eochefort, 
Esq. — only son, and heir of John Eochefort and 
Catharine Austyn, his wife. Or, in the event of his 
death, to be opened by his mother, the said Catharine 
Eochefort ; but should both be dead, then this paper 
to be destro3^ed, as the contents can be of no service 
to any other person whomsover.^' 

Mr. Franks. — Then you had better lose" no time in 
making yourself acquainted with itf> contents. But 
j)erhaps you would rather return home before you do 
so. 

Gerald. — With your leave, my dear sir, I will read 
it here, it can contain no secret which should be hidden 
from 

Jessie. — Me ! Come, Gerald, open it at once, and let, 
us hear what frightful plot it is intended to reveal. I 
am dying with curiosity. 

Gerald. — Then your curiosity shall speedily be grat- 



72 GEORGE SEYMOUR. [aCT III. 

ified. — {Breaks the seals. The ^package contains several 
pajpers — letters and notes — promissory notes and hills. — 
One papery the largest, is sealed and directed in a similar 
manner to the outside envelope. This Gerald opens and 
runs his eyes over the contents.) 

Gerald. — My dear sir. — {Seizing Mr. F. by the hand 
and shaking it heartily.') — My dear sir, congratulate me ! 
Jessie, congratulate me! — {Clasps her in his arms, 
kissing her several times.) 

Mr. Franks. — As soon as you have smothered my 
daughter, and while somebody is going for the coroner, 
perhaps you'd have the goodness to inform me, upon 
what grounds a man should be congratulated on becom- 
ing a candidate for Bedlam I 

Jessie. — If it is quite the same to you, papa, I would 
much rather he'd postpone the smothering, and let us 
have the explanation first. 

Gerald. — My dear sir, my dear Jessie, I'm the hap- 
piest man alive ! 

Mr. Franks. — Then I must say, I hope I may never 
see any one happy again, if my fingers are to be 
ground to mummy, by way of expressing his delight. 

Gerald. — Will no one wish me joy? — Jessie, why 
don't you wish me joy ? 

Mr. Franks. — What the devil should we wish you 
joy for ? Is it for losing your senses? 

Jessie. — You forget, Gerald, dear, you have not told 
us the contents of that paper. 

Gerald. — By Jove ! I believe I have lost my senses ! 
But just listen to this: — {Beads.) 

"1, Walter Stevenson, being in the last stage of a 
fatal illness, and about to appear before my God, do 
make this confession, believing it to be in all parts 
true, and in the sincere hope that it may be the mean?? 



SCENE IV.] GEORGE SEYMOUR. 73 

of repairing the fortunes of a family, in whose ruin, I 
acknowledge, with deep remorse, I was made an agent. 
I had for years been the principal confederate and only 
confidant of G-eorge Seymour, who, for some reasons 
which he would never avow, had conceived an intense 
and unconquerable hatred against Mr. John Eoche- 
fort. I was introduced to Mr. Kochefort by Mr. Sey- 
mour, as a man of large fortune, for the purpose of 
inducing him to gamble for immense suras.' At first, 
we played fairly, but, finding that we could not succeed 
speedily in the destruction of our victim, we had re- 
course to cheating and foul play of every description. 
An agreement was made by Seymour and mj^seif, by 
which he was to receive all sums of money and ]3er- 
sonal securities won from Mr. Eochefort, and I to be 
paid a certain amount as my share of the spoils. 
When we had stripped Mr. Eochefort of all his ready 
money, Seymour advanced him immense sums on 
mortgage, which sums quickly found their way back 
again into Seymour's hands, and again advanced, un- 
til, by degrees, the entire of Mr. Eochefort's property 
came into Seymour's hands. "When this consummation 
of his villany was accomplished, Seymour paid me my 
share of the spoils, and insisted on my leaving the coun- 
try — which was part of the compact between us. I had 
been but a short time in India, when I heard of Mr. 
Eochefort's death ; and, from that hour, I have never 
known a moment's peace of mind, but remorse, prey- 
ing on my health, gradually reduced me to the brink 
of the grave, and now, on my death bed, I make this 
confession, as the only restitution in my power. The 
enclosed bills are some of those obtained from Mr. 
Eochefort, and kej^t by me without Seymour's knowl- 
edge, and the letters, some of which are in Seymour's 
own handwriting, and some copies^ will prove the 
I 



74 GEORGE SEYMOUR. [ACT III. 

truth of the above statements, and may probably be 
of serviee, in enabling the wife or son of Mr. Eoche- 
fort, to recover the property which he had thus been 
robbed of. Walter Stevenson. 

"Attest, 

" Eichard Sandford, 

" Eector St. Paul's Church, Calcutta/^ 

Underneath is written : 

" A few hours after the above was completed, Wal- 
ter Stevenson departed this life — I sincerely trust for 
a better and a happier one. At his request, I deliver 
this document into the hands of a gentleman who was 
a kind friend to him during his last illness, and who, 
being about to return to England, has promised to 
fulfil his wishes respecting it. 

" Charles Bellmear, Clerk. 

" Calcutta, August 24, 1814.'^ 

Mr. Franks. — {Grasping GeraWs hand and dancing.) 
Hurrah, my boy ! three cheers ! The damned villain ! 
Jessie — the infernal villain ! Jessie, I say— oh, the 
desperate villain ! Jessie, why the devil don't you 
sing? You have no more feeling than that table — ■ 
why don't you throw your arms round his neck and 
wish him joy ? 

Jessie. — I'm afraid of being smothered, papa ! 

Mr. Franks. — Afraid of the devil. Miss ! Walk over 
here this minute. 

Jessie. — Well, then, when the coroner comes, remem- 
ber you are the cause of my death ! — (Approaches 
Gerald and holds out her hand.) — Dear G-erald, I con- 
gratulate you with all my. heart. 

Mr. Franks. — (Walks behind her, and, with a vigor- 



SCENE IV.] GEORGE SEYMOUR. 7-5 

01/5 push, sends her into Gerald's arms.) — For three 
straws I'd horsewhip you ! standing there shilly-shal- 
lying, when you know, in your heart, you're dying to 
be at him ! Bah I I hate such humbugging I^Kiss 
him, I say — the damned villain ! 

Gerald.— 8\y ! 

Mr. Franks. — Oh, a thousand pardons — I meant 
that damned villain, Seymour ! Is he alive ? 

Gerald. — He is, sir ; not only alive, but at this very 
moment in Dublin. 

Mr. Franks. — In Dublin ! Just wait while I get my 
hat. — (Flushing towards the door.) 

Gerald. — Stay, my dear sir ; we'll have him ; time 
enough 

Mr. Franks. — Have him ? We'll hang him, sir ! up 
by the neck ! He shall be hanged, drawn, and quar- 
tered — and roast, sir, roast alive ! 

Jessie. — After his being quartered, I supj)ose ? 

Mr. Franks. — Leave the room, Ma'am ! you^re a 
disgrace to your sex, and your sex is a disgrace to the 
world. 

Jessie. — And the world 

Mr. Franks. — Consider yourself no longer my 
daughter— you'll pack off — to the poor house before 
to-morrow morning. 

Jessie. — Now, my dear father 

Mr. Franks. — Dear granny ; hold your tongue, Miss ! 

Jessie. — Forgive me this one time, — (walking to- 
wards him, loith the palms of her hands together, and 
whimperiyig ,) — this one little time, and I'll never do it 
again ! 

Mr. Franks. — If you dare come near me, I'll — I'll 
pull your nose ! 

Jessie. — Only this one little time. — (This is repeated, 
while Jessie approaches her father sloioly, until she is 



76 C4E0RGE SEYMOUR. [ACT III. 

within a short distance, when, with a sudden springy she 
throws her arms around his neck, and kisses him.) 

Mr. Franks. — There; now, run away with yourself. 
I forgive you. 

Jessie. — And you won't horsewhip me ? 

Mr. Franks. — ITo — no — there be off. 

Jessie. — I^or send me to the poor house ? 

Mr. Franks. — No, I tell you. 

Jessie. — I^or pull my nose ? 

Mr. Franks. — No — unless you provoke me to it by 
staying here any longer. 

Jessie. — Well; theU; I forgive yoUj so there's another 
kiss for you. [Exit. 

Mr. Franks.— Hhfxi'^ the way she always makes a 
fool of me.- — She's the plague of my life. But come 
to my library. This Seymour, sir — we'll hang him 
high as Haman. 

Gerald. — Excuse me this morning. Mr, Crosbie 
was to meet me at my rooms at ten. I'll be with you 
this evening. In the mean time, what say you to 
Jessie and yourself dropping in at mother's, and pre- 
pare her for receiving the details of this startling dis- 
closure? I'll meet you there as soon as Mr. Crosbie 
and myself hant up this Seymour. 

Mr. Franks. — With all my heart. Although I am 
but a poor hand at such jobs, yet Jessie, bless the 
darling, cau; and will, do the thing up neatly. 

[Exeuent. 



SCENE v.] GEORGE SEYMOUR. 77 

SCENE V. 

SITTING-ROOM — SEYMOUR'S HOUSE, BAGGOT STREET, 

[Seymour discovered seated at a Table.] 

Seymour. — {Rising.') — Thirty years ! Ah ! what a 
change ! Then, basking in the smiles of love's young 
dreams — the future bright and glorious, with the sweet 
girl on whom I had lavished all the love of a heart 
free from guile, by my side, I slept on and dreamed. 
But, oh ! the waking from that dream ! A needy ad- 
venturer stepped in and robbed me of all — my love — 
my dream of happiness — my honor ! We met — upon 
the green sod I left my rival weltering in his own 
blood, to die — as I hoped — as I prayed ! But it was 
not to be! — he recovered! What was left me! [Mo 
peace, but revenge ! No joys, but her tortures and 
her groans ! But her, Kate Eochefort ! Well do I 
remember her words — ^^ I now despise you ! " Aye, 
then I cursed her, bidding her, when she was writhing 
beneath the power of the spirit she had despised, to 
yemember, that the tortures she was enduring, were 
but the workings of my revenge I I fled ! Seventeen 
long years I was a stranger to my home, I returned ! 
The princely estate of my rival vanished, and hailed 
me as it owner ! He died, broken hearted they say ! 
Bevenge ! The widow lived on in penury and wretch- 
edness, my hatred following her, step by step, until 
she confessed to me having used the wealth confided 
to her care, for the use of the orphan Emma. True, 
no other crime could be attached to that, than a sim- 
ple breach of trust. — Yet she knew it not. Her fears 
placed her still farther in my power ! 



78 GEORGE SEYMOUR. [ACT III. 

Gerald knew not the manner in which his mother had 
received her ward's fortune^ and, when informed of the 
circumstances, took it for granted, that she had placed 
herself within the power of the law, and saw no way 
lor her escape, but by replacing the money ere her 
ward reached majority. I had sworn vengeance 
against her and hers, and to reach Gerald most effec- 
tively was through his love for Miss Franks. He is a 
noble boy, and is willing, to save his mother from 
harm, to sacrifice that love ! Were the motlier dead, 
I could forgive the son. Since Emma has been my 
companion, a gentler spirit has been awakened. She 
is the only being I have met, since I reached man's 
estate, who has touched my heart. She loves Gerald 
sincerely, and for her sake, I will pretend, when I meet 
him to-morrow night, that the reason for breaking 
off the match, no longer exists, and will give him the 
money required ; and, then, in the character of guard- 
ian to Emma, I will demand it from Mrs. Eochefort. 
Then, with my adopted daughter, I will bid farewell 
to Ireland forever. But I will see Mrs. Eochefort 
again, and probe that proud spirit of hers to the 
quick. [Exit. 



SCENE VI.] GEORGE SEYMOUR, 79 

SCENE Y I . 

GERALD ROCHEFORT'S ROOM. 

Enter Gerald Rochefort and Tom Ci'oshie. 

Tom. — Well, I do declare, Gerald, your history beats 
the Mysteries of Udolpho all hollow ! By the Lord ! 
this is the greatest day that ever came for old Ireland! 
Just oblige me with a loan of twenty or thirty thou- 
sand pounds, will you ? It's a mere trifle to yon, you 
know ! Why, man alive, Crcesus was a beggar-man to 
you ! Stop a bit — there's a pack of fox-hounds for 
sale atDycer's to-morrow, and Frank Studdert's hunt- 
ing-stud is to be had for a song — I saw the most per- 
fect thing at Ilutton's yesterday, in the way of a light 
mail — there's a splendid yacht advertised in this morn- 
ing's ^^ Sauuder's ^' — the best grouse-mountain in the 
kingdom is to be let — the — 

Gerald. — For God^s sake, my dear Crosbie, be serious 
for a few minutes. I want your advice in this matter. 

Tom. — Oh ! that's a difterent thing. Imagine your- 
self addressing Solomon — now for it. — (Seats himself. ) 

Gerald. — AVith this paper in my possession, I think 
I may boldly demand from Seymour the restitution of 
my father's property 

To7n. — Think ! what do you mean by think ? Don't 
you know very well you may ? 

Gerald. — Yes; but he may deny the entire state- 
ment. 

Tom. — How the devil can he do that, when you 
have his own letters to Stevenson 1 

Gerald. — He may deny them also. 

Tom. — Then, blow his brains out I and, indeed, un- 



80 GEORGE SEYMOUR. [aCT III. 

der any circumstances, I don't see how you can avoid 
tliat ! 

Gerald, — ^Nevertheless, I most certainly will avoid 
it. The law shall deal with him. 

Tom. — Law be damned ! justice, sir, before law, any 
day — the scoundrel must he shot ! 

Gerald. — Not by me, Tom; you may shoot him if 
you have any fancy for it, but 

Tom. — Don't say another word ! I'll pepper him — • 
ril do him the undeserved honor of sending a bullet 
through his kidney. He's a dead man before this time 
to-morrow. You must carry the challenge, Gerald, 
my boy ! — (Starts to prepare it.) 

Gerald. — {Laughing.) — Come, come, Crosbio, you 
must give up this blood-thirsty notion. 

Tom. — I'll tell you what, there's no use in talking, 
but if you don't let me pepper that infernal rascal, I'll 
never forgive you ! 

Gerald. — Well, we'll speak of that directly. But 
what had I better do first? 

Tom. — After all, I think the best thing you can do 
is to go straight to his house this moment, and, before 
he has time or opportunity to defend himself, accuse 
him boldly of the charges made against him in that 
confession of his unfortunate confederate. I can 
shoot him afterwards. 

Gerald. — I will take your advice. Will you come 
with me, Crosbie? 

Tom. — Will I ? I wouldn't lose the meeting for a 
thousand pounds ! I told you we'd unkennel him — 
and now to be in at the death ! ]N"o fear we shall "miss 
our tip/' my boy. But don't you think that we might 
want Denny Conner in this affair ? 



8C3ENE Vl.] (JEOKGE SEYMOL'I^. Si 

Enter Denny Conner. 

Denny. — An' av 3^011 want liim, you have liim. 
Spake of the divle, axin' yer pardon, gintlemen, for 
mentionin' the baste ! — {Touching the brim of his hat.) - 

Tom. — Vfhy, Dinny, what brings you here ? 

Denny. — Faix, I'm takin' a walk. Sorro a ha'p'orth, 
else. 

Tom. — I thought yon went back to your worthy 
Master's when you left us this morning. 

Denny. — So I did, sir, but I knew he Avouldn't be 
there afore night, so I just come to look at the ladies I 

Tom. — Well, so much the better. We have found 
out the " ould Turk," as you call him, and are going 
to pay him a visit. 

Denny. — Oh, thunder-alive ! is it in airnest you are, 
Masther Tom ? downright airnest ? 

Tom. — 'Yes, come along. When we have holed the 
fox, we may want you in at the death. 

Denny. — I'll tell you what it is, that ould thief in- 
sulted me, when he axed me to spy Masther G-arald. 
You're a gintleman, Masther Crosbie, an' can undher- 
stand how a poor boy, without a fardin' in his pocket, 
or a skreed on his back, has his feelings as well as 
thim that rowl about in carri'ges — the ould naygur 
insulted me, I say, an' if it was for nothin' else than 
that, I'll have my revenge of him. — {Dashes his hat 
on the floor.) 

Tom. — Well, Dinny, you rascal. Til forgive you all 
the mischief you ever did, and all the lies you ever 
told, while you were my valet, for your conduct on 
this occasion. You're not so great a scoundrel as I 
thought. 

Denny. — I'm no betther nor my neighbors — I'm no 
betther nor my neighbors^ Masther Tom : but I'd 
k 



S2 GEOReE SEYMOUR. [ACT HI. 

scorn to be a spy. But stop, Mastlier Garald — since 
I left you this mornin^ IVe had my eye on the ould 
Turk ; an' I dogged him irom Baggot strate till yer 
mother's door, where you'll find him now, Tm afther 
thinkin\ 

. Gerald. — Indeed; then Tom, weVe no time to lose. 
[Exeuent Gerald dnd Tom. 

Dejiny. — Hurroo! hurroo ! yer sowl ! — (Throws Ms 
hut up several times, kicking it as it falls.) — Hish ! take^ 
that ! Bad loock to poverty ! Whoo yer sowl ! — 
(^Demolishes his hat. — Starts for the door — -suddenly stops 
and scratches his head in deep thought.} — Be the howly 
Saint Pathrick — I have it! I'll to Baggot strate, an' 
tell the youDg lady there, that the ould haythen 
wants her till Misthress Eochefort's; an' by the curse 
of Crummel, we'll smother the ould Turk wid the pre- 
sence of his frinds. 

lExit singing and capering. 



SCENE VII.] aEORQE SEYMOUR, 83 

S C E N E^ V I I . 

DRAWING ROOM — MRS. ROCHEFORT'S HOUSE. 

[Mrs. Kocliefort discovered seated, gazing upon a Miniature.] 
Enter George Seymour. 

Mrs. B. — {Looking up.) — Again, sir ! have you dared 
{Bising.) 

Seymour. — Aye, Madam, I have dared more than 
this. Eeinember ! 

Mrs. ^.— Would to God that I could forget! Why 
have you come here now ? 

Seymour. — To bring you news ! 

Mrs. B. — News ! — what news have you brought me? 
You were ever the bearer of evil tidings. 

Seymour. — And am now — and ever shall be to you 
and yours. Have you felt my power yet, Madam ? 

Mrs. B. — Oh, I have ! I have ! but spare me now. 
— (Sinking back into her seat.) 

Seymour. — Nor now, nor never ! You shall feel it 
to the last ! 

Mrs. B. — Speak, then, at once ! Let me hear the 
worst ! I can bear anything now ! What new evil 
has your malice in store for me ? 

Seymour. — As I have been a vulture to thy heart, 
so will I be a raven to thy ear. Thy son 

Mrs. B. — (Springing from her seat and grasping Sey- 
mour's arm.) — Gerald ! What of him ? Speak ! 

Seymour. — Your son. Madam, knows all your crimes, 
and has consented to break off his marriage with Miss 
Franks, to save his mother from dying in prison, on 
condition I loan him the required amount, to mak© 



84 GEORGE SEYMOUR. [aCT III. 

good to Miss j^.ubyn, the fortune left her, and which 
you so basely squandered. 

Mrs. B. — Oh, God ! comfort my noble boy ! Begone, 
sir ! My son would, were he here, chastise the coward 

Enter Mr. Frmiks and Jessie. 

who thus dares insult his unprotected mother, fallen 
though she be. Beware, George Seymour ! In this 
you have gone beyond forbearance — the worm will 
at last turn and sting the heel which is crushing it to 
the earth ! Your part in this transaction shall now 
be made known to Gerald. Would he were here to 
sweep the reptile from my sight. 

Sey7nour. — Ha! ha! ha! Comes it then to this? 
Know then, woman ! thy wrath and thy scorn falls 
harmless at my feet. Both thou and thy boy, ere 
to-morrow's sun, shall breathe the foul air within a 
prison's walls. 

Mr. Franks. — Seymour I Seymour ! Ah ! the very 
man Gerald and Mr. Crosbie have gone to chastise — 
the villain ! What I have witnessed since I came 
here, would have convinced me, that you could have 
been no other than George Seymour, without having 
heard the name. Jessie, hold my hat and coat, while 
I show this jackanapes, that he is not to insult a wo- 
man in my presence, without meeting his just deserts. 
Watch him, Jessie, and don't let him escape by the 
door, while I am rolling up my sleeves. 

Enter Gerald Rocliefort and Tom Crosbie. 

Gerald. — Hold, Mr. Franks ; let me relieve you of 
this disagreeable job. Attend to the ladies. 

Seywour. — Maj^ I ask to whom I am indebted for 
ibis interference? 



SCENE Vir.] GEORGE SEYMOUR. 85 

Gerald. — It is an idle question, sir : the pretext of 
ignorance will avail but little. Yoa have not now to 
learn who I am. 

Tom. — And as to me, if you have any particular 
anxiety to know my name, you will find it there. — 
(^Throivs his card on table.) 

Seymour. — What is the meaning of this outrage ? 
You are both strangers to me. 

Gerald. — It is a falsehood ! and, in order to spare you 
the degredation of uttering such another, permit me 
to inform you, at once, that I am acquainted with the 
entire of your villany, from beginning to end. 

Seymour. — (Passing his hand rapidly across his fore- 
head.) — You force me, sir, to leave you. 

Gerald. — By Heavens I this is more than I can bear. 
Look you, for the sake of my father's memory, I 
would spare you public disgrace if possible; but, so 
help me Heaven ! if you carry on this farce one in- 
stant longer, I will denounce you to the world for the 
villain that you are ! I know you, sir, — you would 
have ruined 7ne, as you have done my parents. Even 
now, I should have been your victim, but that the 
hand of Providence placed the means of escape within 
my reach. You are at this moment in my power, so 
that, by a word, I can crush you to the lowest depths 
of disgrace and infamy -, but it rests with yourself 
whether that word shall be spoken— — - 

Seymour. — {In a low voice,) — What is all this? 
Why are you here ? 

Gerald. — {With gentleness.) — Mr. Seymour, I will 
explain in a few words why I am here. Since the 
night when I made an application to you, supposing 
the character you then assumed, to be your real one, I 
have discovered many secrets of your life. When I 
tell you that the greater part of them have been made 



86 GEORGE SEYMOUR. [ACT III. 

known to me through Walter Stevenson, I presume, 
it is unnecessary to add, that I am aware of the means 
by which my poor father's ruin was affected. 

Seymour. — Ah ! Hell and damnation ! foiled ! Foil- 
ed at the very moment of triumph, and that, too, by 
the death-bed repentance of the tool I fostered for its 
accomplishment. Death to my dreams of revenge! 
Aye, and death to thee, who would thus triumph in 
my fall. — {Attempts to stab Gerald, hut is prevented by 
Crosbie, who hurls Seymour to the floor, stunning him by 
the fall.) 

Enter Eynma Aulyn, followed hy Denny Conner. 

Emma Aubyn. — What means this ? {Seeing Mrs. B.) 
Oh, mother, tell me quickly, why this scene ? 

3Irs. R. — {Embracing Emma.') — It means, my love, 
that an all-seeing Providence has laid bare the devilish 
deeds of that man, — {'points to Seymour,) — who, in re- 
venge, attempted but now the death of my noble boy. 

Emma Aubyn. — What ! the death of dear Gerald, and 
by my guardian, too ? 

Mrs. R. — Guardian ! IS^o guardian, but a base plot- 
ter to mar the happiness of others, and riot in their 
misery. In my youth, that man was a woer for my 
heart and hand. For his fierce and ungovernable 
passions, his suit was rejected. For that act, no means 
has he left untried, to wreak his vengeance on me and 
mine. My husband — my fortune, — both have felt his 
powder, — my fortunes fled — my husband lies in his 
grave, the victim of this fiend, and of a broken heart. 
M}'- own existence has been made miserable by his 
hellish arts. At last, to secure his silence, in a mo- 
ment of anguish, I confessed I had used the fortune 
committed, with you, to my care. From that day to 



SCENE VII.] GEORGE SEYMOUR. 87 

this, not a moment's peace have 1 known. To aid 
him in his designs to get you in his power, as a farther 
act of vengeance on mc, he extorted Irom my fears, 
an acknowledgment of his false pretensions to your 
guardianship. You listened to his words, and left me. 
My boy's happiness has not escaped his machinations, 
and but now he sought his life. 

Emma Aubyn. — My God ! this is terrible ! 'Tis true, 
he did persuade me, as my guardian, to flee your house, 
and dwell with him as his adopted daughter, but not 
until he had rung my heart with the wrongs he 
made me believe I had suffered at your hands. This 
story of his guardianship being false, oh, what cre- 
dence can I now give to the rest ? Oh, my God ! sup- 
port me, in this, my hour of misery. — (Falls into Mrs. 
H/s arms weeping.') 

{During this scene Seymour revives, and is aided to his 
feet by Gerald and Denny.') 

Seymour. — Emma here ! Ah ! then all is lost ! Oh ! 
Vengeance, I have followed thee too far, and to re- 
ceive me hell blows all her fires ! Caught ! caught in 
my own snare I Betrayed by my own instrument ! 
This Comes of human weakness. Had I strangled 
the tool, when his services were no longer needed, my 
amour would have been proof— proof ! 'Tis hard to 
die, with health beating in every pulse, the powers of 
enjoyment unpalsied, the means of gratifying them 
in my grasp I Courage ! courage ! Better death than 
the idle gaze of the curious, or the pity of unrelenting 
foes. Eevenge ! stand firm, and interrupt his wishes ! 
Eevenge ! on whom ? — no matter — earth and Heaven 
would blush, should I forbear ! I^ow ! — (Stabs himself 
—falls — partially raising himself.) — Come hither, Era- 



88 GEORGE SEYMOUR. [aCT lit. 

ma, let me hear thy pardon ere I bid farewell to earth, 
— {Emma krieels — supports his head) Child, I meant 
thee no harm, but aimed to do thee good. Gerald, be 
kind to poor Emma. Love, fare thee well ! — {Dies,) 



!■ 



BOOK OF €HROM€LES! 

BEING A FAITHFUL AND TRUE HISTORy OF THK 
DISSENSIONS AMONG THE 

M^iiitl!l®Ui ®EJi®iiJli¥ 

OF THE COUNTY OF KNOX, 

UPON THE 

KANSAS QUESTION! 

TO WHICH IS ADDED 

THE CALLS FOB THE LECOMPTON AIMD 
THE ANTI-LEGOMPTOlSr MEETIIfGS. 

WRITTEN "BY 



^ ]rC^^ 




3:35G-^2=^XS1L..^LT X O 320" ♦ 



MT. YEKNON, OHIO: 

iPRINTED AT THE NATIONAL EOOK AND JOB OFFIO&. 

1858. 



THE BOOK OF CHRONICLES. 

^ » » 

CHAPTER I. 



► N the first year of the 
i reign of James the Se- 
L cond, called by his 
D friends " Old Buck," by 



reason of his having with- 
stood the allurements of the 
fairest portion of the land. 




2. A great commotion 
arose in the land of Kansas, 
which spread throughout the 
length and breadth of the 
land of America, reaching 
even unto the land of Knox. 

3. And James the Second 
sent to the land of Kansas, 
one of his Chieftains named 
Lecompton, to subdue and 
rule over the turbulent spir- 
its of that rebellious land. 

i. But thf* wrath of the 



people thereof waxed hot, 
and they arose, to a man, 
and would not have this man 
Lecompton as their ruler. 

6. And James the Second 
was sorely troubled, and he 
issued his commands to the 
people throughout the land, 
to receive this man Lecomp- 
ton, and to fall down and 
worship him. 

6. But a goodly portion 
of the people of the land of 



4 



THE BOOK OF CHRONICLES. 



America, under the lead of 
Stephen, the "Little Giant," 
rebelled against this com- 
mand. 

7. And the wrath of James 
the Second waxed hot, a,nd 
le swore in his anger, that 
his commands should be obey- 
ed, and that al! the people 
';i?ho would not swear allegi- 
ance to this m.an Lecompton 
■should lose their heads. 

8. iSTow, when this com- 
mand reached the land of 
Knox, the Chieftains thereof 
irembled in their boots. 

9. And word was sent to 
the Chieftains, to assemble 
themselves together, to coun- 
sel one with the otlier. 

10. And when the Chief- 
tains assembled themselves 
together, Edward the Wit- 
less, Eli the Miller, John the 
Chief Consul, Matthew the 
Irritable, Samuel the Israel- 
ite, Samuel the Expectant, 
whose sir name is Axtell, Wil- 
liam the would-be Congressr 
man, and William the Beard- 
ite, declared valiantly for the 
cause of James the Second, 
and his great Chieftain Le- 
compton. 

1 1 . But William the Gas- 
tonite, Jacob, of the house of 
Ly Brand. Jacob the Bank- 
er, Charles the Scribner, Ra- 
guet the Spouter, James the 
ICeeper of the Iron Horse, 
Zimmerman, the Deposed. 
Isaac, of the tribe of Hadley, 



Robert the Irvinite, and Har- 
vey, who had diligently 
sought to count the treasi^es 
of the people, manfull}^ step- 
ped forth into the ranks of 
the Little Giant. 

12. But William, -the 
Master of the Posts,- bowed 
his knee, and kissed the toe 
of the great Lecompton, feaT- 
ing, peradventure, the wratb 
of the King. 

13. And Lecky the Hiat- 
per, being afraid of the wrath 
both of the Little Giant and 
of the King, fled, and hid 
himself within his Castle, and 
placed a strong guard of horse 
shoes round and about him. 

14. At this the wrath of 
Eli the Miller, waxed exceed- 
ingly hot; fi'om his nostrils 
came forth steam as from a 
furnace heated seven times 
hotter than the fiery pit ; his 
eyes shone like two balls of 
living fire ; his tongue be- 
came swollen with the venom 
of his heart, and his mouth 
belched forth words of bitter- 
ness and of gall, 

1 5 . So^r eat was his wrath 
that his legs tottered, and he 
fell to the ground as dead, 

16. And great wfis the 
commotion thereat, and- Hen- 
ry, of the house of Banning,, 
brought forth water, and, 
casting it upon the face of 
the. prostrate Chieftain, he 
revived. 



THE BOOK OF CHRONICLES. 




IT. Among the Chieftains 
of the land of Knox, were 
Baldwin the Eenegade, and 
John the Know Nothing, 
whose record caused the 
friends of the King to look 
upon them with distrust . 

18. The taint of Aboli- 
tion smelt strong upon the 
garments of Baldwin; yea, 
stronger than the stones of 
the land of Danville ; and 
from the hair of John creep- 
eth forth the filth of the 
Know l>rothing dens. 



19. Now, these things 
stank in the nostrils of the 
friends of the King, and 
causeth their stomachs to 
turn against them. 

20. And Baldwin th& 
Renegade, and John the 
Know Nothing, reasoned one 
with the other, and came and 
bowed themselves down at 
the feet of Lecompton, swear- 
ing fealty for the future, re- 
ceiving the brand of infamy 
for the past. 



CHAPTER II. 



►Here dwelleth in a 
small village called 
Squealtown, in the 
land of Knox, one 
Joseph, of the house 
i.n Keny, a Chieftain 
mighty in his way. 

2. Now, this Chieftain 
sorely troubled both the 
friends of the King, and of 



the Little Giant, for he vain- 
ly attempted to do battle both 
in the cause of the King and 
likewise of the Little Giant. 
3. And when the friends 
of the Little Giant issued 
their commands to the peo- 
ple of the land of Knox, to 
assemble themselves together 
at the Castle in the Citv of 



THE BOOK or CHRONICLES. 



Vernon, on the sixth day of 
the month of March, in the 
second year of the reign of 
James the Second, Joseph 
caused his name to be attach- 
ed thereto, and great was the 
dismay of the friends of the 
King, for they looked not for 
this desertion on the part of 
one whose antecedents led 
them to look for better things. 

4. At the grief of the 
friends of the King, the heart 
of Joseph softened, and he 
cast about striving to re- 
trieve himself from the odium 
his course had brought upon 
him, and to cause the face of 
the King to smile as of old. 

5. Now, it appears, this 
act of rebellion upon the part 
of Joseph, was caused by his 



listening to the pleadings of 
James, the Keeper of the 
Iron Horse, a favorite Chief 
of the Little Giant. 

6. And, to make James 
the Scapegoat, to bear to the 
mountains, the burden of his 
sins, Joseph, through the 
columns of the Banner, de- 
nounced him as the betrayer 
of his unsophisticated inno- 
cence, and the cause of his 
making the face of the King 
to clothe itself in the habili- 
ments of sadness. 

7. And smiles of joy illu- 
minated the face of the King, 
and Joseph was received a- 
gain into favor, while Jamea 
was«»cast out, as utterly un- 
worthy of a place in the af- 
fections of the King. 



CHAPTER III. 



MONG the Chieftains 
friendly to the cause 
of the King, was one 
Absalom the Thrift- 
^^ ful, who dwelleth in 
t^e'City of Frederick, in the 
land of Wayne. 

2. In times past, the peo- 
ple of the land of Knox hon- 
ored him greatly, and confi- 
ded to his care the safe keep- 
ing of the malefactors and 
the unruly people of the land. 

3. In the discharge of the 
duties appertaining to his 
post of trust, he greatly ple-as- 



ed his friends, so much »o, 
indeed, that he retired from 
office with little or no opposi- 
tion. 

4. ISTow, when the frienda 
of the Little Giant declared 
against the King and his 
Chieftain Lecompton, Absa- 
lom took his place in the 
ranks under the King, having 
in his eye the post he former- 
ly held, and he battled dili- 
gently in the cause of his 
Master. 

5. And the praise of his 
mighty deeds were on the 



TBI BOOK OF CHRONICLES. 



tongues of all the faithful : 

6. And the fame thereof 
reached even unto the ears of 
the Law-makers -who assem- 
bled tibemselves together in 
the City of Columbus, t» de- 
vise ways and means to pre- 
vent the Treasury of the State 
from becoming too greatly 
burdened with the issue of 
banks, and of the coinage of 
silver and of gold. 

7. And the Law-makers 
issued their mandate to the 



people of the land of Knox, 
not to interfere with nor mo- 
lest the great Black Republi- 
can Chieftain, Underwood, 
until the year one thousand 
eight hundred and sixty, and 
the first day of the month of 
January thereof, 

8. Now, this mandate of 
the Law-makers, troubleth 
Absalom sorely, for, from his 
long fast, he hath become an 
hungered, and longeth for a 
suck at the public teat. 



CHAPTER IV. 



MONG the Chieftains 
of the land of Knox, 
whose names were 
not placed on record 
in tne first Chapter, 
were Montgomery the Sheriff 
and Cotton the Scattering 
Candidate. 

2. Now, both these Chief- 
tains, were mighty in their 
way, and had aided power- 
fully in placing the King up- 
on the throne. 

3. In the first year of the 
reign of James the Second, 
Montgomery the Sheriff, 
journeyed unto the land of 
Kansas, and dwelt therein. 

4. And on his return to 
the land of Knox he manful- 
ly stepped forth, and declared 
for the cause of the sover- 
eignty of the people, and 



joined the forces under the 
Little Giant. 

5. But the Chieftain Cot- 
ton, who was a mighty Nim- 
rod, in hunting after places 
in the gift of the people, vi- 
brated like unto a pendulum 
between the forces under the 
King, and the forces under 
the Little Giant, fearing, per- 
adventure, lest he strike on 
the weaker side, 

6, Knowing this hanker- 
ing after places of power, by 
the Scattering Chieftain, 

7, The friends of the King, 
in the First Ward of the City 
of Vernon, agreed one with 
the other, 

8. That if he would de- 
clare for the King, and go 
against the impounding of 
swine found running at large. 



Tl^E EOQIi OE C!I«VQ$*'ICji^^^ 



they would give him the seat 
with the City Fathers, then 
occupied by the great Black 
Kepublican Hauk. 

9. And thereupon Cotton, 



the Scattering Candid^tje^ 
stepped forth, and enrolled 
his name with the follawjej*! 
of the King. 1, 



CHAPTEE V 



^^OBEMOST among those 
Mi who declared for the 
l[7f King, and against the 
^^ cause of the people, 
^^ stood the great Chief- 
tain Young, whose Castle is 
reared among the hills in the 
land of Monroe. 

2. In all the land there 
are none more ready to do 
unto the King homage than 
.the Crippled Chieftain. 

3. "When the knees of the 
hitherto undaunted followers 
>of the King became helpless 



as the limbs of sucklings,, 
through the great fear that 
was upon them, this Chief- 
tain stood forth dauntless, as 
though cased in armor, and 
the echo of his war cry rang 
throughout the land. 

4. On the fifth day of the 
month of April in the second 
year of the reign of James 
the Second, the famous battle 
of Monroe was fought,^ be- 
tween the followers o:^ ^e 
King, under the lead^sl^p 
of the Chieftain Young, aiBid 




THE BOOK OF CHRONICLES. 



the forces of the gallant 
Black Kepublicans, who po 
numerously infest the hills 
and the vallej-^s of that dark 
and benighted laud. 

5. A battle so sanguinary 
in its results that the Chroni- 
cles of history, sacred or pro- 
fane, contain cth not its equal. 

G. To its glories, the 
strings of the lyre of Lecky 
the Harper awoke, and the 
fame thereof sounded sweetly 
in the oars of the King, and 
his followers became merry 
as though gladdened with the 
spirit of new made wine : 

7. And it was likened un- 
to the conflict upon the plains 



of Salamis,Platea, Marathon, 
Thcrmopyl8e,"Waterloo, Bur- 
ker Hill, Yorktown, New 
Orleans, Buena Vista, Palo 
Alto, and one hundi-ed others, 
inconvenient for the Harper 
to attune his lyre to the glo- 
ries thereof. 

8. Now, although the for- 
ces of the Black Kepublicans 
were defeated, yet they are 
not dismayed at the war cry 
of the Chieftain Young, nor 
the lyric of the Harper, but 
they withdrew from the well- 
contested field, bearing with 
them tweiit}' more of their 
foes than at a former battle. 



C II A P T E J 



^OllN the Chief Consul. 
[[ journej-ed* unto the 
F Castle of the King, in 
h; the land of Washing- 



ton, bearing unto him the 
allegiance of his friends, 
and the defiance of the rebel- 
Ian ts. 




10 



THE BOOK OF ClIROxNICLES. 



2. When the King heard 
these tidings of the rebellion 
in the land of Knox, he bow- 
ed his head and wept : 

3. And he swore in his 
wrath, the rebellious Chief- 
tains must be subdued and 
return to their loj^alty, or 
John the Consul should not 
see the land of France. 

4. And John the Consul 
stood amazed, for he looked 
not for this treatment from the 
hands of the King, to whom 
he sold his integrity. 

5. And ho returned to the 
land of Knox, sorrowing, for 
his heart was set on a journey 
to the land of France. 

6. And word was sent to 
the Chieftains of the land of 
Knox to assemble themselves 
together, and take steps to 
appease the wrath of the 
King. 

7. And the Chieftains as- 
sembled themselves togeth- 
er, and hearkened unto the 
commands of the King, and 
reasoned one v/ith the other, 
and those who had declared 
for the Little Giant, as with 
one voice, refused to recede 
from the stand they had ta- 
ken at their former counsel. 

8. And the Chieftains who 
had knelt at the feet of 
the King, and taken the 
Chieftain Lecompton to rule 
over them, 

0. Issued a call to the 
People of the land of Knox 



who were friendly to the 
cause of the King, and who 
were willing to take the Chief 
Lecompton to rule over them, 

10. To assemble themselves 
together at the Castle in the 
City of Yernon, in the land 
of Knox, on the fifteenth day 
of the month of March, in 
the second year of the reign 
of James the Second, 

1 1 . And to sweep from off 
the face of the earth, all those 
dilapidated Chieftains who 
had declared against the rule 
of the Lecompton Chieftain, 
and who "hath watered in the 
face of the King. 

12. Peradventurc, lest the 
Chieftains, who were friendly 
to the cause of the King, 
should prejudice the minds 
of the people of the land of 
Knox against those who had 
rebelled against the rule of 
the Chieftain Lecompton, 

13. Another call was is- 
sued, commanding the people 
of the land of Knox to as- 
semble themselyes together 
at the Castle in the City of 
Vernon , 

14. On the sixth day of 
the month of March, in the 
second year of the reign of 
James the Second, 

15. To hearken unto the 
reasons which had caused 
them to join the forces under 
the Little Giant, and to array 
themselves against the King. 

1<3. And tbo -'noise and 



THE BOOK 01' CUK0M10LE8. 



11 



confusion,'' created by their 
proceodings, penetrated the 
walls of the Castle of Lecky 
the Harper, 

17. Causing him to moan 
and writhe in agony, for, in 
the triumph of either the 
King, or the Little Giant 
in the land of Knox, the 
"bread and butter" of his 
existence would fall to the 
ground.^ 

18. And L^eky the Har- 
per issued forth from his 
stronghold, 

19. And for the space of 
six days flew, like a bird of 
])assage, from "one contending 
i\:ve^:"{r> thH other, 

20. Proving with the one, 
gjUnd counselling with the oth- 
er, to withdraw their smn- 
mons to the people, 

21. And unite together 
and command the people of 
the land of Knox to gather 
themselves together in one 
assembh", and 

22. To express themselves 
for or against this Lecomp- 
ton Chieftain, and to swear 
fealty to the King, or to join 
the forces under the Little 
Giant, a^ the voice of the ma- 
joritv might declare. 

23" xVnd the Chieftains 
who had rebelled agains^t tlie 



King, confident in their 
strength, and firm in the in- 
tegrity of their purposes, 

24. Listened to the songs 
of the Harper, and pledged 
themselves one with the oth- 
er to mthdraw their summons 
to the people, and submit to 
the voice of a majority there- 
of. 

25. But the Chieftains 
who had resolved to stand by 
the King, hearkened not un- 
to the songs of the Harper, 
and grew exceedingly wrathy 
at ilib pusillanimity of the 
Chieftain of Horse Shoe 
Bend, who was too fearful to 
declare for or against the 
King, and drove him forth 
from among them, and he 
took refuge within the walls 
of his stronghold. 

2(3. And he called around 
him the spirits of the mighty 
dead, and for the space of 
fifteen days ho dv/elt in the 
presence of those who had 
arisen from their graves. 

27. And throughout his 
Castle resounded the rappings 
of the departed, and so great 
was the noise thereof, his 
Castle was shunned by the 
people as a place wher-.-ii;, 
dwelleth tlie u)igo,d!'/. 



niE BOOK OF OliRONICLES. 



CHAPTEK YII. 



J^^'N the sixth day of the 
^1" M month of March, in 
mM the second 3'ear of the 
^jf^ reign of James the 
(^0^ Second, the people of 
the land of Knox assembled 
themselves together at the 
Castle, in the City of Vernon. 

2. And they cam.e from 
the valleys, and from the hill 
tops, and from the esUreme 
corners of the land, to the 
number of four hundred and 
three score and ten. 

3. And they came in so- 
berness, for they were of that 
class who loved to reason to- 
gether, and to hearken unto 
the words of wisdom, 

4. And McWiiliams, of 
the land of Clay, was chosen 
to preside over them, and Ja- 
cob the Banker selected as 
Scribe. 

5. 'Nov/, among the Chief- 
tains in the land of Ohio, who 
had rebelled against the 
King, and refused to kneel to 
the cap of the great Lecomp- 
ton, were Kenry the Painful, 
of the land of Cuyahoga, 
and Daniel of Toledo, in the 
land of Frogs. 

6. Kow these Chieftains 
once stood high in the favor 
of the King, and had receiv- 
ed many tokens of esteem 
from his hands. 



7. But when the King 
commanded his followers to 
fail dov^^n and v/orship the 
cap of the great Lecompton, 
they rebelled, and joined the 
forces under the Little Giant, 
and they stood forth ready to 
do battle manfully for the 
cause they had espoused. 

8. And they journeyed 
from their homes in the land 
of Cuyahoga and in the land 
of Frogs, and pitched their 
tents in the land of Knox. 

9. And in the words of 
truth they spake unto the 
people, of the wrongs and in- 
iquities attempted to be per- 
petrated upon the people of 
the land of Kansas, by the 
King, and by the Chieftain 
Lecompton, sent to rule over 
them. 

10. And the people of the 
land of Knox hearkened un- 
to their words, and arose to 
a man, and said : 

11. This mighty evil shall 
not be, and they swore in 
their wra,th that they would 
not have this man Lecomp- 
ton as their ruler. 

12. Among the Chieftains 
of the land of Knox, who 
had rebelled against the 
King, was William the Gas- 
tonite, 

13. Whom the King and 



THE BOOK OF CHRONICLES. 



13 



his Chieftains had brought 
from the land of Jefferson, 
to do battle in his cause, and 
to rescue the land of Knox 
from the hands of a mighty 
people called Black Eepubli- 
cans. 

14. And the Lecompton 
Chieftains were incensed at 
his rebellion, and they swore 
in their wrath, that he should 
not dwell in their midst, for 
they were fearful the people 
would hearken unto his voice. 

15. And "William the Gas- 
tonite also spake unto the 
people, of the frauds and in- 
iquities attempted to be for- 
ced upon the people of the 
land of Kansas by the King. 

16. And the people assem- 
bled were amazed at his words 
of truth, and they girded on 
their swords anew, resolved 
to conquer or die in the cause 
of justice and truth. 



17. Now, when the Le- 
compton Ch ief tains heard 
these resolves of an incensed 
people, they were as dumb- 
founded, and they reeled 
through the streets as swine 
afflicted with the kidney 
worm. 

18. And for the space of 
three days they remained 
within their Castles, fearing, 
peradventure, lest Steele, the 
Marshal, should impound 
them under the provisions of 
the ordinance restraining sick 
swine from running at large, 

19. And Matthew the Ir- 
ritable journeyed throughout 
the land of Ohio, in search 
of Chieftains friendly to the 
cause of the King, and v/ho 
were in possession of the gift 
of gab, to speak unto the 
people on the fifteenth day of 
the month of March. 



CHAPTER VIII. 



,^^N the morning of the 
M !m. fifteenth day of the 
4KJJ' month of March, in 
^MpJ the second year of the 
^(^ reign of James the 
Second, God caused the rain 
of heaven to <^scend upon 
the earth, and the great 
thoroughfares leading to the 
City of Vernon, by reason 
thereof, became almost im- 
passable. 



2. So much so, indeed, 
that but few of the people of 
the land of Knox ventured 
forth from their hearthstones. 

3. But those who loved 
the spirits, both of the de- 
parted, and of corn, came 
forth in their strength, and 
made the streets of the City 
to resound with the discord 
of babbling tongues and of 
rampant passions, 



] i 



THa BOOK OF CIIKONICLES. 



-L The. number thereof 
■were eomputed by those skill- 
v'dl in the science of figures, 
to have reached three hun- 
dred and two score and five. 

6. And Lecky4he Har- 
]>er issued forth from his Cas- 
tle, and appeared in their 
,mid:^t, vociferating with a 
■'cud voice and wild niein : 

0. Long live the King 
and his great Chief Lccomp- 

7. And the people were 
rnxiazed at his \vord,s, and 
exclaimed : 

8. . Cast this man forth 
from among us, for by his 
teachings, have we not lost 
the spoils of office, and hgs 
not the cause of the Black 
Kepublicans triumphed to 
the utter destruction of the 
cause of the King in the land 
of Knox ? 

9. And Lecky the Har- 
per bowed his head and v/ept, 
and, ■with a rntiful voice, he 
cried : 

10. Cast me not forth to 
the tender mercies of mine 
enemies, for the Black Re- 
publicans will have me not, 
nor will the Yellow Repub- 
licans fellowship with me, 
and if ye cast me forth with 
the brjind of infamy on my 
brov/, " where shall I go ?" 

11. And the hearts of the 
King's friends softened, and 
iljov said, with a voice of 



12. Since we brought ye 
from the land of Pennsylva- 
nia, on probation, ye may 
tarry with us for the space of 
one year longer-, for in that 
time ye will have performed 
your mission, the utter de- 
struction of the cause of the 
King in the land of Knox, as 
has come to pass in every 
land where ye have pitched 
your tent, 

13. ITow, when the people 
liad assembled themselves to- 
gether in the Castle, they 
chose from amongst the Chiefs 
John the Consul, to preside 
over them, and installed as 
Scribe, Baldwin the Rene- 
gade, 

14. Among the Chiefs who 
.came from afar, wore Samuel 
the War Horse, "William the 
Bologna Sausage Chief, Bel- 
den the Chief Prosecutor, 
Saiibrd the Senator, Prer.tiss 
the Chief Spy, and Mat the 
Martin, a Stipendary in the 
Treasury Department in the 
land of Washington. 

16. Now, all these Chief- 
tains, excepting Safford the 
Senator, were in the pay of 
the King, and the people 
marvelled greatly amongst 
themselves, why they deserted.- 
their posts to trav'^ unto a 
far land to^peak unto them, 

16. And the people mur- 
mured one to the other, say- 
i n>y : 

17. In the days of cood 



THE BOOK. OF CHRONIC l-KS. 



-[^y 



old King Hickory, these 
things would not have come 
to pass, for the good old King 
would havo sworn in his 
wrath, "By the Eternal! the 
man who leaves his post shall 
die ! " 

18. And when the people 
had ceased their murmuring, 
Matthew the Irritable came 
forth smiling, and said : 

19. Behold ! I present to 
you the great Chief, Belden 
the Prosecutor, who hath 
been swiftly converted from 
his heresies, and from follow- 
ing of the Little Giant, hy a 
small parchment, with the 
King's name thereunto at- 
tached, making him the 
King's Attorney over the 
people of the land of ISTorth- 
ern Ohio, 

20. And the Chief Prose- 
cutor put forth his hand and 
commanded silence, for the 
people murmured one with 
the other, saying : 

21 . Why should the King 
go forth into the ranks of his 
enemies, and buy, with the 
gold of office,his Chief Speak- 
ers ? Have we none faithful 
to the cause of the King 
among us ? 

22. And when silence pre- 
vailed, the Chief Pi-osecutor 
spake unto the people, say- 
ing: - 

23. In times gone by he 
spake unto a great people 
(galled by two names — the 



people Democratic, and the 
people Black Republican, but 
now I find three : by what 
name shall this third people 
be called ? 

24. Aiid Matthew the Ir- 
ritable cried with a voice of 
anguish, for the divisions 
among the people Democratic 
vexed him sorelv : 

25. Call them the << Di- 
lapidated Democrats!" and 
thereat the face of John the 
Consul was seen to smile, for 
the name suited him to a T ! 

26. Then the Chief Prose- 
cutor shook his curly locks, 
and wiped his flattened nose, 
and said : 

27. 'No ! the name sounds 
stale — call this third peo- 
ple " Yellow Eepublicans!" 
it suits my complexion best ! 

28. Again came forth 
Matthew the Irritable, lead- 
ing Samuel the War Horse, 
saying : 




29. Hearken unto my 
voice, ye people of the land 
of Knox, an4 give heed unto 
my words, that ye may learn 
wisdom, 

80. This is the mighty Old 
War Horse, the fame of 
whose ravages hath reached 
even unto the remotest coi>- 



16 



THE BOOK OF CHROJslCLES. 



nors of the land of America. 
31. So terrible were his 
depredations in the land of 
Oliio, that the people thereof 
beseiged the Castle of the 
King, and suffered him not 
to rest in peace, until he gave 
heed unto their complaints. 



32. And the King com- 
manded his head groomsman 
to journey with the Old War 
Sorse unto the green pastures 
of the land of Minnesota, 
and to cast him loose among 
the Half Breeds of that land. 




83. And the head grooms- 
man and the Old War Horse 
journeyed unto the land of 
Minnesota, and the head 
groomsman, by command of 
the King, made the Old War 
Horse Governor over the 
Half Breeds of that land. 

84. And in the short space 
of six months thereafter, the 
Half Breeds of the land of 
Minnesota, assembled them- 
selves together, and, forming 
for themselves a Constitution, 
beleaguered the doors of Con- 
gress for admission into the 
Union as a Sovereign State, 



po devaf^-i-ating bad been tiie 
depredations of the Old War 
Horse. 

35. And the King took 
compassion upon the Half 
Breeds of the land of Minne- 
sota, and gave unto the Old 
War Horse six thousand 
dollars worth of oats in the 
City of Columbus, in the 
land of Ohio, fearing, per- 
adventure, lest the heels of 
the Old War Horse should 
be found Mcking against the 
throne of the King, with the 
determination to accomplish 
the destruction thereof. 



THE BOOK OF CHROiSJCLES. 



i: 



30. A nd the people of the 
land of Knox wondered one 
with the other, paying; : 

37. What halli this Pedi- 
gree of the Old War Horse 
to do with the direful divi- 
sions among the people De- 
moeratic in the land of Am- 
erica, as to the ruling of the 
Lecompton Chieftain. 

38. Again came forth 
Matthew the Irritable, and, 
in a voice like unto the bark- 
ing of a dog, cried : 

39. Behold the great Bo- 
logna Sausage Chief, William 
the Sawyer, of the region of 
Hoop-poles, in the land of 
Auglaize. 

40. The fame of whose 
deeds, while in the councils 
of the nation, are yet odorif- 
erous in the land of Colum- 
bia, for great was the havoc 
among the canines of the 
land, and the matrons 
mourned for their first born, 
and refused to be comforted, 
for they were not. 

41. And the people of the 
land of Columbia rebelled, 
for their goods were exposed 
to the midnight i^luncterer, 
for so destruetiTe was the 
war of the butcher, tliat not 
a guardian dog was sp;n'eu as 

' C 



a monuinent to the satiated 
stomach of the Bologna Chief. 

42. And the people drove 
liim forth from among them, 
and he became a wanderer i]i 
the land of his brethren. 

43. And his fame follow- 
ed him whiclisoever way ho 
went ; and even now, al- 
though his teeth have be- 
came like snags, the dogs are 
fearful of showing their fa- 
ces within three score and 
ten miles of his whereabouts, 
lest, peradventure, they go 
the way of their departed 
brethren. 

44. Then the people of 
the land of Knox. Avho were 
assembled in the Castle, arose 
to their feet in disgust, and 
departed for their homes, 

45. For they came not 
together to hearken unto the 
depredations of the Old War 
Horse, and to the glutton- 
ous exploits of the Bologna 
Chief, 

46. But to give heed unto 
tb;0 words of the friends of 
the King, and to hearken 
unto the reasons v/hy the 
Chieftain Lecompton should 
rule over the people of th«- 
land of Kansas. 



18 



THK BOOK OF CHRONICLES. 



CHAPTER IX. 



■^\^ the evening of tlie 
M M fifteenth day of the 
^M month of March, in 
^bj^ the second year of the 
^fci^ reign of James the 
Second, John the Consul 
prepared for the followers of 
the King in the land of Knox, 
a feast. 




2- And Castle "Woodward 
throughoLit the day, resound- 
ed witii the sound of the ham- 
mer and the buzz of the sav/. 

3. And Abel the Eeader 
of the Globe, worked dili- 
gently from the rising of the 
sun to the going down there- 
of, in preparing the board for 
the reception of the good 
things of the land. 

4. Now, John the Consul 
had brought with him from 
a former journe}^ to the land 
of France, some of its exhil- 
arating vintage : 

5. And the fame thereof 
had reached even unto the 
remotest corners of the land 
of Knox, 

6. And the eyes of the 



Nephites were made to glisten 
with its virtues, and their 
tongues were loosened to sing 
its praise. 

7. And as the King had 
commanded John the Consul 
to gather together his follow- 
ers, in the land of Knox, and 
to obtain their endorsement, 
that he was right "on the 
goose,'- before he humbled 
himself at the foot of the 
throne, it became the Consul 
to administer spirituous con- 
solation to the hearts of the 



8. And John caused his 
servants to bountifully supply 
the table with his choicest 
wines : yea, even the wine of 
the land of France. 

9. And his servants bore 
unto the Castle Woodward 
five thousand three hundred 
and three score and two bot- 
tles of the vintage of the land 
of France. 

10. And in the centre of 
the east table was placed a 
pyramid of sweetened dough, 
and on the top thereof was 
placed the Horn of the King, 
and the points thereof were 
red, as with the blood of 
Bleeding Kansas. 

11. And the followers of 
the King bowed themselves 



THE BOOK OF CIIR0NI0LE3. 



19 



and did homage unto the 
symbol of Majesty. 

12. At the outer gate of 
the Castle stood Fordney the 
would-be Assessor, to receive 
the tax of the people, for an 
assessment of twenty-iive 
cents per caput had been hiid 
Upon the revellers at the Con- 
sul's feast. 

13. The number thereof 
was computed at two hundred 
men, women, boys and dem- 
ocrats. 

14. And all the Chiefs 
who had wives took them to 
the feast, and those who had 
no wives took two, and the 
beauty, both matron and 
maiden, of the city, were 
there in all their hoops and 
sparkling gems. 

15. And when the guests 
had assembled themselves to- 
gether in the banqueting 
room, 

16. Matthew the Irritabi e 
presented himself before the 
guests, and spake unto them, 
saying ; 

17. Men, women and de- 
mocrats! Ye that have ears 
hearken unto my voice, and 
heed the wisdom of my loyal 
words. 

18. Who so eminently 
qualified to sit at the head of 
the feast, as the great Bolog- 
na Chief, whose history ye 
h^-ve this day listened unto. 

19. A Chief whose head 
1? silT^er^d o'er with the bi- 



ting fi'osts of Democracy, 
and whose aged limbs totter 
with the weight of the King's 
favors : . 

20. A mighty Chief who 
knows no kindred, save those 
who worship at the shrine of 
power, and sell themselves 
for a mess of spoils : 

21. A Chief, at the men- 
tion of whose name, the elder 
dogs refuse to bark, and the 
little puppies subdue their 
whine : 

22. A Chief whom G-od 
has given just sense enough to 
be a Democrat, and to trem- 
ble at the frown of the King : 

23. A Chief high in favor 
with the king, and who is even 
now journeying unto the land 
of Minnesota, to rule over 
one of the land offices of that 
people, and who is to receive 
therefor the sum of nine 
thousand dollars annually of 
the revenue thereof. 

24. Again spake Matthew 
the Irritable unto the assem- 
bled guests, saying : 

25. This is^Mat the Mar- 
tin, a Stipendary in the pay 
of the Treasury Department 
in the land of Washington. 
Though small in stature, he 
is yet mighty in the cause of 
the King : 

26. As a child, at the 
breast of his maternal parent, 
he sucked in Democracy, and 
from the day he was weaned 
unto the reign of James the 



20 



THE BOOK OF CHRONICLES. 



Second, lie has been a sucker 
at the public teat, and like 
Oliver Twist, his cry is still 
for "nio-re!" 

27. And the guests at the 
Consul's feast murmured one 
to the other, for they came 
not to hear these sayings of 
jiatthew the Irritable, but to 
partake of the good things 
prepared by the Consul, and 
to drink of the flimous wine 
of the land of France, 

28. jSTow, among the rev- 
ellers, was Saiiord the Sena- 
tor, from the land of Eoss, 
whose brain had been work- 
ing, and the Chieftains of 
the land of Knox were fear- 
ful that, unless he v/ere per- 
mitted to deliver himself, he 
would go straightway and 
do something desperate. 

29. And they took com- 
' passion upon his bowels, and 

led him to the side of the Bo- 
logna Chief: 

'iO. And for the space of 
two hours his voice was heard 
rumbling through the Ban- 
queting Hall, like unto the 
noise of an army afflicted 
with the summer complaint. 

31. Again spake Matthew 
the Irritable unto the Bolo- 
gna Chief, saying: 

32. There is an old back- 
^vood's axiom, that this was 
a very good frolic, but a long- 
time between drams 1 

33. Tiien the guests arose 
to their i'eot, and took their 



places around the festal board, 
and the vintage of the land 
of France was in great de- 
mand, and the guest became 
merry, and thej^ reeled to and 
fro, as men maddened with 
the rectified spirit of corn. 

34. And the tongues of 
the Hard Sock Chief, the Old 
War Horse, Baldwin the 
Eenegade, Belden the Prose- 
cutor, and Lecky the Harper, 
became as the tongues of the 
possessed, and inundated the 
guests with a diarrha3a of 
words. 

35. And Safford the Sen - 
ator became as one escaped 
from the Lunatic Asylum, 
and exclaimed, with the voice 
of a maniac : 

36. " Save me, Sam ! or 
I perish!" and he fell into 
the arms of the Old "War 
Horse as dead. 

37. Now, among the guests, 
were a number of the youths 
of the land, styling themselves 
" Young America," and they 
made themselves merry with 
the sayings and d.oings of the 
wavering Chieftains, 

38. And Matthew the Ir- 
ritable waxed wroth at the 
gibes of Young Ainerica, and 
he commanded them to leave 
his presence. 

39. But, having paid their 
assessment at the gate, they 
heeded not his commands, 
but tarried in their midst. 

40. And the hands of 



TlIK BOOK or CimoNlCLEtS. 



21 



Matthew became incensed at 
the words of Young America, 
and the fingers thereof clasp- 
ed the thorax of the young 
Chieftain Brown, and "Wil- 
liam the Master of the Posts, 
caught the raiment of Mat- 
thew by the hinder part there- 
of. 

41. And great was the 
commotion thereat, for the 
young Chieftain Brown was 
a slight youth of some seven- 
teen summers, and the guests 
trembled, lest, peradventure, 
he suffer violence at the hands 
of his incensed enemies. 

42. And the muscles pass- 
ing through the arms of Mat- 
thew, were seen to expand 
and contract, as though they 
were of gutta percha. 

43. And in a voice hoarse 
with passion, he vociferated : 

44. '• You infamous scoun- 
drel ! I have known you for 
twenty years ! and you have 
always opposed the Democra- 
tic party !" 

45. And -the clarion voice 
of the Chieftain Brook, of the 
House of Terr J, rang through 
the Hall: "Young Ameri- 
ca! to the rescue !" 

46. Likewise the voice of 
Prentiss the Spy, was heard, 
saying: "Ho! ye followers 
of the King ! to the rescue of 
our Irritable Chief !" 

47. But the counsels of the 
more prudent prevailed, and 
the belligerent forces with- 



drew from the well fought 
field, and pitched their tents 
for the night within sight of 
the cain])-fires of the" enemy. 

48. l^^ow, fearing the tur- 
bulent spirits of the followers 
of the King, 

49. John the Consul, Mat- 
thew the Irritable, "William 
the would-be" Congressman, 
William the Beamite, and 
Samuel the Israelite, had is- 
sued their vv^ritten commands 
unto 

50. Eolin the Judge, Mc- 
Clelland the Com.missioner, 
W^arden the Merchanic, Nor- 
ton the Old War Horse of 
Whiggery, and to Iluntsber- 
ry the Tinner, all mighty 
Chiefs in the ranks of the 
Black Eepublicans, 

51. And likewise unto Jo- 
seph the Lawyer, the puissi- 
ant Chief of the undivided 
Vance force, 

52. Commanding them to 
be present at the festiVal of 
the Chief Consul, hoping, 
thereby, from their respected 
and well known virtues, to 
keep in subjection the warlike 
proclivities of the followers 
of the King. . 

53. But the Chieftains of 
the Black Eepublican forces, 
and the Chief of the Vance 
party, hearkened not unto 
their commands, saying : 

64. "Let them alone!: — 
They v/hom the G-ods wish to 
destroy they first make mad." 



22 



THE BOOK OF CHRONICLEa. 



CHAPTEE Xv 



jL MpNG- the Chieftains 

fk who had declared for 

qJ ^ the King, were Ed- 

^f^^jp ward the Witless, an d 

&^(3 Samuel the Israelite, 

12. But the assembling to- 
gether of the people of the 
land of Knox, on the sixth, 
day of the month of March, 
in the second jeav of the reign 
.of James the Second, caused 
them to falter in the course 
they were pursuing. 

3. And Edward journeyed 
to the North, even unto the 
land around and ah out the 
deep waters of the Lakes. 

4. And he tarried among 
Ms friends until after the as- 
sembling together of the peo- 
ple on the fifteenth day of the 
month of March, and he came 
not near the forces of the 
King, nor unto the Banquet 
prepared by the Chief Consul. 

6. But Samuel the Israel- 
ite journe3^ed not a-v/ay, but 
tarried in the land of Knox ; 

6. And on the thorough- 
fares leading to the City of 
Vernon, he advocated the 
cause of the King, but at the 
hour of battle he came not 
forth, nor was his presence 
noted at the Banquet of John 
the Chief Consul. 

7. And the friends of the 
King marvelled greatly one 
.^o the other, saying; 



8. What means this ? Is 
Samuel the Israelite aping the 
Pughing Senator from the 
land of Ohio, in advocating 
by speech the cause of the 
King, and then giving aid 
and comfort to the cause of 
the Little Giant, by refusing 
to eat at the Chief Con.9urs 
table ? 

9. Is it his desire to fill 
the seat in the Councils of the 
Nation, now occupied by the 
Burning Chieftain of the land 
of Coshocton ? 

10. Or has he his eye fix- 
ed upon the far off port of 
Marseilles in the land of siin- 
ny Prance ? 

11. ISTow, this division 
among the people Democra- 
tic, sorely vexed the Israel- 
itish Chieftain, 

12. And he compared it 
like unto a monkey climbing 
a pole, and exposing his west- 
ern extremities to the gaze of 
an applauding people, saying: 

13. Although the face De- 
mocratic has brass enough in 
its composition to imitate the 
monkey, yet let us not uncov- 
er ourselves before the Black 
Eepublicans, for they already 
see enough of our nakedness, 
to mantle our cheeks with 
the blush of shame ! 

14. Now, therefore, being 
a Chieftain of great cunning, 



THE BOOK OF CHRONICLES. 



23 



Samuel kept aloof from all pie, hoping, thereby, to pre- 
theae gatherings of the peo- serve a spotless record. 



CHAPTER XI. 



A MONG all 
j\ theChief- 
J^ tains in the 
rf^^ ^and of Knox 
^|^g(^ there are 
none more faithful 
to the cause of the 
King, than Abel the 
Reader of the Con- 
gressional Grlobe. 

2. Now, Abel is 
both a wise and a 
good Chief, for dur- 
ing the days allot- 
ted to labor, he dil- 
igently studies his 
Bible, and on the 
seventh day he rests 
from his toil, and 
eommunes with 

- the teachings of the 
Globe, and is ex- 
ceedingly refreshed 
therehy. 

3. And he abides not 
the presence of those tainted 
with the slime of the Know 
Nothing dens, but shunes 
them as a pestilence. 

4. Even the Sanctuary of 
the Most High,soothes not his 
resentment against them, but 
in his wrath he Pilchers from 
under the droppings of the 
Gospel, at the sound of the 
voice of a Lamanite, 




And the heart of Ab^ 
taught him to shun the Ban- 
quet of the Chief Consul, as 
a place fit only for the ungod- 
ly, and all its guests he fer- 
vently consigned to the land 
of Gehenna. 

6. And he came not unto 
the Banquet, but on the go- 
ing dovru of the sun, he re- 
tired unto his Castle, and 
slept the sleep of the sober. 



24 



THE BUOK OF CHRONICLES, 



CHAPTEE XII. 




.^\.^ the first day of the 
Jf W month of April in 
w2r the second year of the 
^w reign of James the 
(fci^ Second, news came to 
the people of the land of 
Knox, that the forces under 
the King in the land of 
Washington, had been di.s- 
comfitted, and that the Chief- 
tain Lecompton h a d tl e d 
from his 
post, leav- 
in g his 
dead un- 
bnr i ed,' 
and his 
wounded 
in the 
hands of the Little G-iant. 

2. Now, these tidings 
struck the hearts of the fol- 
lowers of the King in the 
land of Knox v/ith dismay, 
for the King had sworn in 
his wrath that in sixty days 
Lecompton should triumph, 
or he would die ! 

3. And Eli the Miller, 
Matthew the Irritable, Wil- 
liam the would-be Congress- 
man, and the. other Chief- 
tains in the land of Knox 
who were friendly to the 
King, bowed them themselves 
down, and wept, refusing to 
be comforted, for they were 
sorely gricvod at the fear of 
the Kini::'s rloatli. for t]ipv 



placed great confidence 
his word. 




4. But on the second day 
of the month of April, the 
spirits of Matthew revived, 
and lie conversed with his 
friends, saying : 

5. Proj^hecied I not these 
things unto you ? This de- 
feat of the King for several 
days -have I expected and 
looked for ! 

6. And the people were 
amazed at his sayings, for the 
''oldest inhabitant" remem- 
bered not his prophecy. 

7. But William the would- 
be Congressman, abided not 
the smiles of the friends of 
the Little Giant, but fled from 
their presence, and taking his 
fishing line and rod. and n 
box of -worm,-, cn-t hims-elf 
down on \hc Ijiirik^ of (he Ko- 



THE BOOK OP OHRONIOLES. !.'& 

CHAPTER XIII. 



SHROUGHOUT t h e 
land of Washington 
the groans of those 
wounded in the battle 
between the followers 
oi tne King and of the Little 



Giant, mingled with tlie WK.r 
cry of the victors. 

2. And the King became 
exceedingly alarmed,lest, ptr 
adventure, he should fall iriLv 
the hands of hie enemiea. 




3. And to the East, and 
to the West, and to the North, 
and to the South, he sent 
forth Messengers to gather in 
his forces, and to buy up with 
the gold of office, or with 
Majestic smiJes, the luke- 
warm, and the timid. 

4. For the King, though 
defeats, had resolved "nev- 
er to say die I" 

6. To the sordid he prom- 
ised coinage of gold and sil- 
ver ; to the eyes of the ambi- 
tious, he presented visions of 
offices of honor and profit : 

6. And unto the vain and 
the proud he spread forth 
costly and fine raiment, and 

d 



clothed them in garments to 
appear in the presence of the 
King. 

7. Among the Ohieftains 
in the Councils of the Natiori. 
was the Burning Chieftai;i 
from the land of Ohio. 

8. Now, this Chieftain had 
left his Castle in the land ol 
Coshocton, to take his seai. 
with the Law-makers in the 
land of Washington, a bold 
and noisy follower of the Lit- 
tle Giant, and had vauntingij 
declared that before his prow- 
ess, the mighty Leoomptoa 
should flee as though puisue J 
by an army with Banners. 

9. A<* he journeyed he 



THE BOOK OP CHRONICLES. 



nursed his wrath, so much 
indeed, that his face became 
terrible to look upon. 

10. And while passing a 
place known in history as 
Mason and Dixon's line, la- 
boring under an hallucination 
of the brain, that his foe was 
with ill his grasp, 



11. So mighty were his 
efforts to destroy his adversa- 
ry, that he tore his shirt. 

12. And the heart of the 
Shirtless Chieftain wilted at 
this calamity, and he fled to 
the bosom of the King as rv 
place of refuge for the naked. 



CHAPTER XIV. 



g^. cih IGH in the favor of tht3 
M^ Little Giant stood 
mm^ the Lilliputian Chief 
^)^jc from the land of 
(SS^ Ohio, familiarly call- 
f-a by his friends the " Great 
Old Sunset," but by his fond 
parents baptised Samuel Sul- 




2. So rnighty was he in 
Ins onslaugh upon the King 
liud his followers, that the 
}*eople were amazed, for they 
VI reamed not so much valor 
y^n» contained in so small a 
■>P«ce. . 



3. And the praise of his 
deeds sounded sweetly to the 
ear, and his heart was made 
glad thereat. 

4. But at the praise of the 
Sunset Chief the King trem- 
bled as in the presence of a 
goblin, and he became as one 
bereft of reason, for in all 
the ranks of the rebels were 
there none so much to be 
feared as this geminations 
Chieftain. 

5. For he boldly rushed 
into places where others fear- 
ed to tread. 

6. Kow., to appease the 
wrath of this Chieftain, the 
King commanded his Cour- 
tiers to go forth and to reason 
with him. 

7. And the Courtiers of 
the King did as they were 
commanded, and the legs of 
the Sun-down Chief tottered, 
and he fell postrate, so pow- 
erful was the effect of an En- 
glish bribe. 

8. And the Little Giant 



THE BOOK OF CHRONICLES. 




and his fuUowors were as 
dinab-founded, for they look- 
ed not for this desertion on 
tlie part of one who had pro- 
phecied that sooner than de- 
sert the cause of the peopL^, 

9. All the Hickory trees so 
majestiely flourishing thro'- 
out the forctsts of the mighty 
AVest, should be eradicated 
hv the roots. 




10. And their dead bodies 
orected into a funereal pyri3, 
upon which to iinniolate his 
vaulting ambition. 

n. Xow, when tlie tidinirs 
•.f the desertion of tlic .Sun- 



down Chief reached tlie cans 
of the people dwelling in tho 
City of Columbus, s 

12. They stood aghast, ati<i 
would not be convinced tiiut 
this thing liad came to pa,?fi,. 

13. And they sent untr' 
him word commanding him 
to appear in their presencl^ 
and show cause why he had 
done this foul thing. 

14. And lie hastened unt-> 
the City and appeared boforo • 
them, and rendered an ac- 
count of his stewardship. 

1-5. But the wrath of the 
people would not be appeased, 
and they drove him from 
their presence amid taunLi 
and gibes for his faithlossnes.s. 

If). And the crestfalle-ii 
Chief made great speed bark 
to the King, und represented 
un'.o him 

17. That thruughout tiio 
If-ngth and breadth of his 
District, tliere prevailed a 
terrible e])idemic,threatonijig 
the King and all his folbiW- 
ors with the fate of tlse jSyritUi 
cohorts, but more especiHlly 
unto him the lat'.' glorioiu 
Sunset Chief, 




^^:^^ -"--^^^^ti^- 



28 THE BOOK OF OHSONICSLES. 

CHAPTER XV. 



.f|k3|^0"W, when the King 
|\fi had gathered togeth- 
JhW ^^ *^® stragglers, and 
*^0^ secured to his cause 
30^0 the weak and the vi- 
Watory, 

2. He caused the com- 
mand to be given along the 
line, that on the morrow he 
should move his forces, and 
s»ive battle unto the enemy, 

3. And on the morning of 
ihe thirtieth day of the month 
of ApriV in the second year 
of his reign, the forces of the 
King encountered the forces 
of ihe Little Giant, and drove 
them from the field with 
great slaughter. 

4. And the joy of the 
King thereat was exceeding- 
ly great, for his strength was 
©early spent, and had his for- 
ces been repulsed, the King 
would have died. 

5. At his defeat the Little 
Giant manfully stood his 
ground, but hia forces wero 
utterly prostrated and de- 
stroy^. 

6. Now, when the tidings 
of the triumph of the King 
reached the land of Knox, 
great waa the rejoicing of the 
loyalists thereat, and they 
were seen to smile at the ftg- 
€?ny of the "dilapidated/* 




7. But the friends of th« 
Little Giant hid themselvea 
in the hedges and ditches by 
the way side for the space of 
three days, for they were in 
sore tribulation, and knew 
not where to flee for consola^- 
tion. 

8. But the friends of the 
King took compassion upon 
them, pixjmising to go snooks 
in the plunder of the Govern- 
ment, and they sought tb« 
shelter of tho Democratio 
Hive, and. entering dwelt 
thoroin. 




THE BOOK OF CHRONICLES. 



^0 



0. Thus exemplifying tho 
saying of tlio great Nullifier, 
'♦that the Democratic party 
can only be held together by 
the cohesive power of public 
plunder." 

10. And the thirtieth day 
of the month of April in the 
second year of the reign of 
James the Second, is now re- 
corded in the pages of history, 

11. AS THE BLACK 
FRIDAY I 



12. The 
King hav- 
ing thus 
successful- 
H' kll ^y termiu- 

A jf crusade a- 
JLJ gainst hiB 

^ ,J[|\ ^ dilapidat- 

ed or Yellow Kopublican foes, 
turned his attention to the 
subjugation of tho numerous 
wives (having none of hi« 
own) of tho settlers on tha 
fur distant plaina of Utah ! 



CHAPTER XVI. 



<|^^0W, the vascillating 
^kJL course of Locky the 
Jw Harper during the 
^^^ early part of the war, 
5|^^ caused him to be sus- 
pected both by the followers 
of the King and of the LittJe 
Giant. 

2, And arrangements were 
made by both forces, to dance 
to the music of a new organ, 
Bbould the Harper tune hia 
lyre to sing the praiso of eith- 
er party. 

o. And when, on the fif- 
teenth day of the month of 
M.woh, he squatted on the 
side of the King, 

4. William the Gaatonite, 
Jamas the Keeper of the Iron 
Horse, Jacob of the House 
of Ly Brand, and other fol- 
k)wer3 of th« LiUla Qiaat, 



5. Bent their commands 
tmto tho City of Brotherly 
Love, 

6. Ordering forthwith to 
be sent unto them the prees, 
types, and other apparatus, 
necesaai'y for printing their 
commands to the people to 
austain the causa of the Little 
Giant 

7. And the charge thereof 
waa given unto Raguet ths 
Spouter, and Agnew the Tall. 

8. And unto William the 
Gastonite, and to Charles tho 
Scribner, were delegated the 
command of the ordnaiitw 
department 

9. And on tho twenty -se- 
cond day of the month of 
April in the second year of 
the reign of Jamse the Se- 
9on^ 



^0 



THE BOOK OF CHRONICLES. 



10. The Mt. Vernon E"a - 
tional was cast adrift upon 
the waters, to bo buffetted 
from point to point by the 
winds and agitated waves of 
the political ocean. 

11. Now, Eaguet the Va- 
pory Spouter, flew from one 
Black Eepublican to another, 

12. Appealing to their 
prejudices agajrist Lecky the 
Harper, and praying them to 
eountenance the cause of the 
JJttle Giant, by rendering 
unto the Kational "material 
wid and comfort ;" 

13. Promising to make 
it discourse such music as 
would make their hearts to 
leap with exceeding greai 

14. And the Black Ee- 
T>ubiicans hearkened unto his 
specious words, and gracious- 
ly smiled upon his efforts. 

15. And they couragc«ou,s- 
ly stepped forth and placed 
their names upon his books 
io a number almost fabulous, 

16. But alas ! the words 
of the Spouter wus as mist, 
;^nd his promises as chaff, to 
vanish at a cypher's breath. 

17. Illustrating the fable 
of the Frozen Serpent so 
touchingly portrayed by the 
inspired pen of Esop. the 
renowned Historian, 

18. Which stung to death 
ttio bosom whose warmth had 
i^'iven it life. 

19. For the sracQ of four- 



teen days, the National wa.^ 
faithful to the cause of the . 
Little Giant, and boldly va- 
pored in the presence of the 
King. 

20. But after the defeat 
of the Little Giant on the 
fatal Black Friday, the Na- 
tional spiked its guns, and 
went over to the side of tho 
King : 

21. And is now battling 
shoulder to shoulder with 
Lecky the Harper, and vain- 
ly striving to supplant the 
Banner in the affections of 
th.e King and of his followers 
in the land of Knox. 

22. Now, for some time 
past, the mind of William the 
Gastonite, had been exercised 
as to what he should liken 
Lceompton I 

23. At times it was like a 
Camel ! then again an Ele- 
phant! tlicn a Whale! but 
his mind finally became fix- 
ed that it was a Weasel ! 

24. Now, to ease the trou- 
bled mind of tho perplexed 
Chieftain, /% 

25. James the Keeper'o^ 
tho Iron Horse, 

2G. Dispatched a special 
Freight Train, numerously 
nifmne-d by the hardy sons uf 
the Emerald Isle, 

27. To discover and cavj^ 
turo a Weasel, to convin(|| 
the Chieftain that Leconrnt'c^^ 
wa.nt»taMytho./,^V^^ 



.-i 



THE BOOK or CHRONICLES. 



m 





^ 28. And the Freight Train 
departed on its mission, 

29. And al'tc-r a long and 
])erilous journey, the sons of 
St. Patrick discovered, and, 
after a sharp conflict, captur- 
ed, two specimens of animal- 
culae, designated by ISTatural- 
ists as Weasels ! 

30. And placing them se- 
curely withizi an old nail keg, 
the explorers returned to the 
City of Vernon, amid tlie 
noise and smoke of an exas- 
perated Eull-gine. 

31. And in triumph the 



Keeper of the Iron Horse 
sent unto the Castle of the 
Gastonite, the imprisoned an- 
imals. 

•V2. And the eyes of the 
Gastonite opened, and he be^ 
came convinced, 

o3. That Lecompton v;as 
not a Weasel ! 

3-i. And now, in ail the 
land, Lecompton has not a 
more devoted follower, than 
Gaston the Weasel Chief,- late 
principal fugleman for the 
Little Giant in the land, of 
Knox. 



CHPTER XYII. 



I: PON the desertion of 
the cause of the Little 
Giant by the Nation- 
al, Lecky the Harper 
became sorely alarm- 

For the prospects are 

fair, that he will be unhorsed, 

" and the^trident as Derhocratic 

music grinder, depart from 

him forever : 

3. For such is the edict 



promulgated by E-aguet the 
Spouter, that the mission of 
the National v/as to lov/ er the 
Banner, and number it am- 
ong the things that were. 

4. And Lecky journeye<l 
unto the King, and humbly 
pressing his claims, , asked 
a reward for his services, as 
advocate for the loyal cause. 

-"). And the King*^ lieaVt 
softcjied, for hia wrath had 



S2 



THE BOOK OP CHRONICLES. 




waxed hot against the Harper agtonishment at the extravft- 
for his sei-pentine movements gant folly of the King, in 
in the cause of Lecompton. paying * so much for so littla' 

6. And tlie King issued 
hifl commands to the Secreta- 
ry of the Navy, to give unto 
Lecky the advertisements of 
that Department, 

7. That in case of collision 
with the National, the Ban- 
ner might give it " Tar." 

8. And the heart of the 
Harper was made glad, and 
his feet kept time to the music 
yf the hags, 

11, And Lecky the Har- 
per returned to his Castle in 
the land of Knox, greatly 
benefitted by his sojourn witli 
the King. 

12, And now the Nation- 
al and the Banner are vieing 
one with the other to print 
tlie hardest " cock and bull " 
story against the Black lAe- 
publican Chief, Cochran, 

13. For Banctioning by 
law, in the land of Ohio, the 
commingling of the blo->d of 
the white With the black. 

14. And advocating them- 
selves the samo thing in the 
licentious South, without the 
Banction of law, or the reve- 
lation of the gospel 

16. Thus endth the 1st 
Book of Chronicles, of Jamee 
the Second I 




9. But when he appeared 
before the Secretary, and 
pr<^ented unto him the com- 
mands of the King, 

10. The mouth of that 
fvmetionary flew open with 



C 32 89 48 













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